In Flux
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: An in-canon Chelsie fic set during the duration of Season 5. Touches on all of the things, big and small, that create tension, high emotions and, eventually, the impetus to action for our favorite butler and housekeeper. References will be made to my Chelsie monolith, A History of Moments, and excerpts therefrom may be woven into this story.
1. Shaky Ground

**Chapter 1**

 **Shaky Ground**

 **A/N: Here we go again, Chelsie loves. Most of S5 got short shrift in AHoM, and some of the "missing" moments are worth exploring and digging right in to. So, here we go, again. I am living in my "canon" world of AHoM, so there will be asides, Easter eggs, and references to the same herein. ~CeeCee**

He left the drawing room in a daze. He felt deeply flattered; and then, so swiftly the emotions got jumbled together, he felt deeply _ashamed_ that his ego had gotten tangled in the mess of it all. This was about creating a proper memorial for the soldiers who gave their lives for king and country, many of whom were young men who'd not even had a proper start to said lives, not about _him_ in any capacity.

Except. They had chosen _him_ , and not his lordship. It was all highly irregular, and though he couldn't quite go so far as to verbalize it, he vaguely felt it disrespectful. Not just to his lordship, but to the whole order of how things were meant to be done.

As he made his way downstairs, he realized he wanted to talk to Elsie Hughes about it. Which, he supposed, wasn't terribly odd these days. He long ago stopped denying, to himself at least, that she was one of the most – well, yes, _the most_ – influential person in his life. Even when they didn't agree. Sometimes, especially so.

He hurried past the hustle of the kitchen preparing for the midday meal and rapped perfunctorily on her door, which was ajar. She was hurriedly eating a sandwich and reading a book: _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

"A life of leisure, I see," he teased, and she looked up, rolled her eyes. Set the book aside.

"Hardly."

"'A Case of Identity'"? He asked, gesturing to the compilation of short stories, sitting across from her.

"Nae, 'A Scandal in Bohemia,'" she finished her sandwich, wiped her mouth, neatly refolded her napkin. Took a sip of tea. These days, there were moments where he just…observed her. The little things she did. So deeply mundane, and yet somehow, deeply fascinating. He caught himself staring, but realized _she_ had caught him too. A small smile, followed by a shaky breath, gave her away. They were both waiting for something, these days. He just wished he could sort out exactly what that something was going to be.

Then the moment was gone, like a leaf on a breeze.

"What was this grand meeting about then?" She broke the silence.

"A scandal of a different sort, I think, Mrs. Hughes," he felt alright again, and she seemed to be, as well, though she wasn't exactly looking at him, not yet.

"And that wouldn't be an exaggeration of any sort, eh, Mr. Carson?"

He raised his eyebrow at her. She was holding his gaze now, a pert look on her face. "I'll let you decide for yourself, then. The group from the village, it was the war memorial committee. They are in the very early stages, of course, but they want to move ahead in earnest. They came to speak to his lordship about securing land for the memorial…and to ask _me_ to be the chairman."

Her face lit up. "Well, that's lovely, then," she smiled at him, poured him a cup of tea. "Where's the scandal, then? Do they want the war memorial upstairs in the great hall? Or The Grantham Arms?"

He pushed down the pride and satisfaction her words sent bubbling up in his chest. They were beside the point. "Well, I am not entirely sure I _should_ be the chairman."

"Why ever not? Didn't you know many of the lads who lost their lives, including our William," she paused, and her face softened briefly, and she took a deep breath, continued, "…including our William, and many others, besides? And you're well-regarded by all and sundry, as far as the village is concerned." She paused, her forehead wrinkling, perplexed. He truly wished she didn't look quite so lovely to him in her confusion.

"But it _should_ be his lordship who leads a committee, an endeavor such as this, not….me," he stopped there, loath to reveal the chagrin he had seen on Robert Crawley's face when he realized it was not _him,_ but his butler whom the committee wanted as their chair. He also was trying to ignore how deeply flattered he was by her words.

"But it's _you_ they prefer, and good on them. I suppose, rightly, they see you as a bridge between the house and village, in a way," she mused, rose from her seat, and began gathering the detritus from her hastily-eaten lunch.

"I thank you for the compliment, but his lordship would have been the far more _traditional_ choice," he stood as well, stopping himself from saying anything further. Mostly because he wasn't sure exactly how to voice his utter _unease_ to her. Not just about the chairmanship, but this _MacDonald_ , the Labor government, many of the grand houses he used to admire now running short-staffed, or worse, being sold out of the hands of the families who had poured years and decades and centuries into them. While he'd not go so far as to call her liberal, he knew Elsie Hughes' tendencies ran, well, rather, _progressively._

"I shan't say that, in some instances, tradition should go hang, as I know that wouldn't be very helpful," she replied, catching his eye.

"Indeed, it would not," he wasn't quite sure how she managed to both charm and irritate him simultaneously, but there you had it. He walked to the door, holding it for her as she passed.

She paused for a moment, looking up at him. He could see the many things she wanted to say dancing in her eyes, but couldn't fathom what they all might be.

"So…are you going to turn them down, then?" Her voice was light, her eyes very serious.

"I am going to…think about it. Consider the offer seriously," he inclined his head slightly towards her. He wasn't lying. Though he hated the idea of offending Robert Crawley, he _was_ very touched to have been asked. And, if he was being entirely honest with himself, her opinion wouldn't decide him – but it would heavily influence him. He had come to accept it, these past few years.

"Well, there's hope for you yet, then," she responded, the corner of her mouth turning up into a half-smile, and continued past him, towards the kitchen, to drop off her dishes.

She glanced back briefly, now fully smiling, catching him gazing at her. He made himself turn away, head in the opposite direction, away from her. It seemed more and more difficult to do, these days.


	2. Lady Luck

**Chapter 2**

 **Lady Luck**

 **A/N: Thanks for jumping in again with me, lovelies. These initial chapters are on the short side, but the third will be as longwinded as I usually am. ;-) And, though the first two belonged to him, the third is hers.**

 **~CeeCee**

 _Well, that's that, then,_ he thought, thinking of the cocky figure of young, insouciant James Kent, leaving out Downton's back entrance an hour or so earlier. He had written the man a glowing recommendation with clenched teeth and the smell of soot still fresh in his nose, first thing this morning. Robert Crawley had left no room for misunderstanding; the footman was to be gone, _poste haste_. His lordship had not been detailed in his reasoning why, but he'd hardly needed to be, did he?

Charles stood, stretched as well as he could in his livery. He was tired, and today would be more topsy-turvy than most, with no end in sight. Never mind that, they must carry on, regardless of his sore back and the dreadful, smoky smell lingering in the family bedroom gallery.

He nearly ran into Elsie Hughes in the hall, and no wonder: she was hurrying, two work aprons and two sets of large, elbow-length gloves draped over one arm, her eyes far away. They looked irritated and pink-rimmed, almost as if she'd not slept well, or had been crying.

"Mr. Carson, I do apologize," she paused, put her free hand over her heart. "'Twas woolgathering, and not at the most opportune time." Her voice was subdued, and her eyes…well, they weren't entirely here, with him, in this conversation, were they?

"Are you quite alright, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Oh, aye, right as rain," she replied, brushing off his concern. "I believe I saw Jimmy slinking out before the morning bell, or did my eyes deceive me?" Her mouth turned up in a bit of a grin, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it, their usual bantering.

"Indeed you did," he wanted to ask her into his office for a cup of tea, or just to sit for a few moments, but he didn't quite dare. And somehow, he didn't feel quite up to playing along with their repartee today either. "Where are you off to, then?"

"Oh, Anna and I are going to sort through Lady Edith's room, make sure any surviving personal effects and belongings don't accidentally get tossed away with the ashes," she sighed again, and he couldn't help himself. He spoke again:

"I'll not press you, but you really don't seem yourself, Mrs. Hughes."

For a moment, he thought the only response he would get would be an eye roll and then, the back of her, as she walked away to her messy task. But, at last, she _did_ look up at him, and she was _here,_ her eyes focused and intent _._ She opened her mouth, closed it. Then opened it again, and spoke.

"I…I gave something to Lady Edith, just the other day, Mr. Carson. Something of Mr. Gregson's, that one of the girls found, whilst cleaning. Something I thought she should have. I suppose…." She trailed off, and he could tell she was struggling to put something into the proper words. "Melancholy seems to hound her, don't you think, Mr. Carson? She can't seem to shake it, no matter what she does."

"Well, I suppose, we _all_ have trials and tribulations, which are a part of life's ups and downs…"

"Aye, indeed we do, and we all must muck through it, best we can," her brow furrowed. She was deep in thought. "It seems to me, though, that there are folks that always turn up lucky, no matter _what_ they muck about in, such as our young man Jimmy, and there are others, who _should_ be, who _seem_ to be lucky, by circumstance, like Lady Edith, but simply _aren't_. Happiness eludes them." She stated with finality, shrugged.

He was perplexed and concerned to see her like this, and wasn't entirely sure it was all to do with Lady Edith, though her words rang with sincerity. The softest spots of his heart belonged to her; they were nearly worn through in some places. And there seemed, each day, less and less likelihood of hiding them from her, and from himself. Maybe, he thought, she was having the same problem.

She must have seen something of this on his face. "Well, enough philosophy for the morning, Anna is waiting, I must be off." She grinned at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. She started to walk away.

"And where do you place yourself, Mrs. Hughes, on this weighty scale of luck?" He thought to ask it in light-hearted jest, but then, why was his pulse pounding in his ears?

"Oh, Mr. Carson, I try best not to rely on luck, not me," she replied, and now he could see the outlines of genuine smile appearing on her face. "I've found industry and hard work have gotten me through well, all these years. Though I suppose the whims of fate affect us all, to some extent."

"And fate, has it been kind to you, Mrs. Hughes?"

"A fickle enough friend, at times, though its true nature remains to be seen. I'm more inclined to trust the personal industry side of things."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"I suppose we'll find out, eventually." With that, she gave him a genuine, warm look, then carried on down the hall.


	3. Secrets in Ash

**Secrets in Ash**

 **A/N: Okay, CeeCee sharing time here. My kiddos are adopted. I feel very strongly, on a personal level, about ALL OF THE CHILDREN THINGS in this chapter. I can barely stand watching the Mrs. Drewe scenes, because I GET IT and the actress did a stellar job. I would cut a person if they tried to take either of my girls away from me, starting from the very first moment I met them, while also DEEPLY appreciating the (likely desperate) decisions their birth mothers had to make FOR THEM. It's probably also why I linger on all of the "families" the Downton downstairs crew creates, because it resonates so deeply with me. Anyway, that's that.**

 **And I promised angst, which there is a bit of, but I'm not one to wallow without hope. So, there's humor too.** **J**

The pair of them worked in near-silence after Anna had handed her the photo of the wee babe Lady Edith had kept under her pillow. Elsie tucked it into her dress pocket, and was very aware of the weight of it there. The photo was like the final piece of a puzzle to which she already knew the solution; but it certainly revealed Lady Edith's heart quite baldly, and deepened Elsie's own concern that she ought never have given the young woman her former paramour's primer.

They finished just before Elsie knew luncheon would be served in the servants' hall. Aside from the photo, they had sorted through other valuable and sentimental items and set them aside to bring to Lady Edith later. Anna pulled her gloves off, her eyes pink and irritated from the lingering soot covering everything, floating in the air, and handed them to her.

She glanced briefly at Elsie's pocket. "You'll hand it to her yourself, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Aye," Elsie wasn't going to stop the conversation, but she wasn't going to encourage it, either, not even with Anna, whom she loved and trusted. And someone whose secrets she had also held close to her heart.

Anna nodded, looked over at the bed and cleared her throat, "A baby should be a joy, not a secret." Her voice was heavy with emotion. Elsie knew of the Bateses' deep longing for a child. _Another pair plagued by sadness, unfairly. But no one ever said life's fair…_

"It should," she replied quietly, as they were in the hall now. "But it seems, in this world, only _certain_ babies are allowed to be."

Anna nodded, wiped a single tear from her cheek, looked as if she wanted to say more, but didn't.

"Why don't you hurry downstairs, have something to eat, then freshen up before Lady Mary needs you? I'll take care of all of this, have one of the girls bring her things to the blue bedroom for Lady Edith to sort through," Elsie responded, gesturing to their soiled work items and Lady Edith's belongings.

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes," Anna hurried down the stairs, and Elsie looked after here, musing on luck and fate and hard work, again. Thinking that women often got the short end of things, as far as all of those were concerned. Or, at the very least, had to rely more heavily on their own industry.

"Mrs. Hughes," the voice behind her startled her. She turned around towards Lady Edith.

"M'lady!"

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she responded. She looked pale and distracted.

"Not at all, m'lady, I hope you were able to rest as well as could be expected in his lordship's sitting room? We've gotten the blue bedroom sorted for you for the short term, if that's quite alright?"

"Yes, of course," her eyes wandered to the dirty aprons and gloves thrown over Elsie's arms, and beyond to the remains of her bedroom.

"Anna and I have gone through everything as carefully as possible, m'lady. We'll have one of the maids bring the…salvageable…things to the blue bedroom, for you to go through privately," she paused, took the photo carefully out of her pocket. "And I thought I should personally give this back to you, m'lady, so I am glad we've seen each other so soon after finishing up."

Edith took the photo and gasped, then hurriedly covered her mouth. She glanced up at Elsie, her eyes wide, afraid. Elsie felt a lump form in her throat. Edith had never been as easy to love as Sybil, or as easy to admire as Mary. But Elsie saw her, now. Very clearly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she clutched the photo tightly. "No one…no one else saw this, aside from you and Anna?"

"No, m'lady."

"And…and you'll not mention this to anyone? Anna…she'll not say anything to Lady Mary? About the photo?"

Elsie reached out, gently placed her hand over the image of the child. "What photo, m'lady?"

The two women smiled sadly at each other.

oooOOOooo

Elsie hurried down the front staircase, the sooty cleaning items still draped over one arm, and headed for the servants' entrance to one side. She heard the front door open and turned to see Isobel Crawley walking in. Here for tea, and to hear about the fire, almost certainly. Elsie deeply admired the woman, her tenacity, possibly because she saw something of what _she_ might have been, if her own position in society's hierarchy had been elevated. She was terribly brazen, but deeply compassionate. Elsie appreciate both of these things.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes!" The other woman called out, a smile on her face, hurrying over. Elsie tried not to laugh. _If Charles Carson could hear her bellowing across the great hall like a newsboy on the corner…_

"Mrs. Crawley, it's good to see you," she replied, nodding.

"How is everyone hold up? Lady Edith?"

"A bit shaken, of course, Mrs. Crawley, but hopefully we'll get things back to normal before too long."

"I've no doubt of it, in the least," she replied. "I see you're in the midst of it all, and I'll leave you to it, but I wanted to share some rather nice news with you."

"With _me_ , Mrs. Crawley?"

"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hughes. We've been co-conspirators in the past, have we not?" The other woman was grinning at her.

"Ye've heard from Ethel?" Elsie whispered, smiling a little. " _Co-conspirators", indeed._ She fought back laughter, and was glad to be nearly certain that Charles Carson was, at this very moment, tucking into his lunch rather than overhearing this particular conversation. _Co-conspirators._

"I have, Mrs. Hughes, and it seems that she's doing rather well," Isobel replied. "And she made a point that I pass her regards, and news, on to you. She, understandably, was hesitant to write you here at Downton."

"I'm glad to hear of it," Elsie replied, as she'd always wondered about the former housemaid and her little boy. She'd not soon forget the moments in front of Crawley House, when Ethel, sobbing, had pushed the little boy into the arms of his paternal grandparents. Things had improved for the young woman, eventually, but she wondered if Ethel's wounds would ever truly heal. "Is she still working for Mrs. Watson?"

"Indeed, she is, and according to her letter, she's a highly valued member of that household. She's looking towards being the housekeeper, someday, she writes."

"Good on her. And…and little Charlie?"

"She sees the boy regularly, thanks to Mrs. Bryant. And though Mr. Bryant isn't quite so…pliable…as his wife, he agrees that Ethel spending time with the boy on her half-days can't do any harm, as long as the rest of their households are unaware of the relationship," Isobel finished.

"Well, I am glad to hear it, Mrs. Crawley," Elsie replied, thinking. What a convoluted way for a young woman to see her own son.

"You don't seem as glad as I thought you'd be, Mrs. Hughes," Isobel's forehead wrinkled.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Crawley, _of course_ , I am happy to hear Ethel's doing well, and the boy, I just suppose…"

"What is it?"

"Well, I suppose I was thinking of the impossible, Mrs. Crawley, that there wouldn't need to be a choice for the child, for Ethel, between a comfortable life and his mother's love," Elsie couldn't quite believe she'd said something so bluntly, but she _was_ talking to Isobel Crawley, after all. She didn't think the woman even noticed.

"Yes, impossible _now_. Maybe not always. Things are changing in England, whether anyone likes it or not," Isobel Crawley shrugged.

"That's not a very popular observation in this house, Mrs. Crawley."

"I imagine _not,_ Mrs. Hughes."

And they both started laughing. Which is when the door to the servants' hall opened and Charles Carson stepped through.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes. I was wondering if you'd be joining us for luncheon. Good afternoon, Mrs. Crawley, might I help you?" Elsie could see no fewer than five additional, unasked questions in his one raised eyebrow.

"I was just heading towards the drawing room, Mr. Carson, I thank you. Mrs. Hughes and I had a few moments' business that we've taken care of quite nicely. Good day to you both."

She left them, to regard each other. Elsie walked toward the door Charles was holding, thinking about mothers, and babies, and women, and the world.

"Dare I ask what that was about?"

"You just did, Mr. Carson," she responded, grinning at him. "Old ladies plotting a revolution. That's what it was about."

He looked down at her, consternation on his face, looking rather put out. She held his gaze. She felt alright now, more herself, not as wobbly and sad as she had this morning. Things, the world, _could_ change, improve. Not immediately, and most things required a special balance of luck _and_ industry, but it was _possible_.

He finally spoke. "You have soot on your nose, Mrs. Hughes."

"I suppose I do, Mr. Carson. Progress is dirty work."


	4. Just Out of Reach

**Chapter 4**

 **Just Out of Reach**

 **A/N: One of the things I was thinking about this weekend as I contemplated the next few chapters is something pretty fundamental about the human experience (not for all, but for most): the physical touch of other people. When we're having a hard time, either because of life's slings and arrows, or with each other, oftentimes, a signal that things are going to be better, going to be** ** _okay,_** **is soothing physical contact: from "kissing a boo boo" to "hugging it out" to "make up sex". Right?**

 **Well…what if that wasn't a socially acceptable option?**

 **What do you do?**

 **This chapter is his, the next is hers.**

It was late, and he was exhausted. He hated to admit that, even to himself, but he was. He poured himself a half-glass of Margaux, trying to ignore the fact that he was waiting. Waiting for a certain tempo of footsteps in the hallway beyond, a certain staccato knock on his door. But…certainly, she must have retired by now? Even the sounds from the kitchen were muted, and he pictured Beryl Patmore, or Daisy, solitary, finishing the final tasks of the evening before heading off to bed.

He closed his eyes, tipped his head backwards a little, trying not to get _too_ comfortable; he knew himself, and these days, he could nod off and awaken several hours later. His mind was as sharp as ever, but his body wasn't always so reliable. He thought back to earlier today, when she'd asked him about the war memorial.

He knew, all along, he was breaking some unspoken rule of theirs, by confessing his unease at being at odds with her on it: he was admitting how much her opinion, how much _she_ , mattered to him. His initial chastisement had shifted into something else, something that put them on equal emotional footing - something neither of them quite knew how to navigate.

And he _had_ been convinced by his and Lord Grantham's exchange with mother and son, he hadn't lied. But the relief he felt was entirely due to the fact they were finally aligned again. It seemed more important than it should, but he held on to it tightly.

She had been flirting with him, he knew, and he had responded in kind. She had looked entirely discomfited, but not at all displeased, and he couldn't stop going back to the moment, right before blasted Thomas Barrow had interrupted them, and blasted Sgt. Willis had elbowed his way in, because not only had the moment slipped away; it seemed entirely erased, as if it had never happened.

Though he didn't understand why, by the time the policeman had left, she was distant, tense and distracted. He was missing something, he knew, but he couldn't determine what it was. He knew she cared about the Bateses, especially Anna, but he felt there was something more to this story, something she knew that she wasn't saying – or couldn't.

He was drifting off, her troubled face clear in his mind, and then, it came: the knock he'd been waiting for.

"Come in," he sat up, straightened his vest, which has gone askew.

She opened the door, stood there, her face tired but smiling at him. She didn't come in, but stayed where she was, her small, tidy figure framed by the doorway.

"Daisy told me you were still in here, I hardly believed it."

"I suppose it _is_ rather late…the day just got away from me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, hopefully I've saved you from falling asleep in your chair, Mr. Carson," she teased, but yes – her eyes were distracted, far away. He stood and walked towards her, almost without thinking. In any case, he really ought to be retiring. He could at least admit he simply had hoped to see her again tonight, before he did.

"You tend to make a habit of rescuing us all, when we least expect it. Or even realize we need rescuing, Mrs. Hughes," he lifted an eyebrow at her, and because he was tired, and so was she, he could tell, once again, what had begun as teasing on his part had landed firmly in utter sincerity.

She smiled up at him again, and he recognized the look on her face, because he'd seen it this afternoon: uncomfortable, flattered, happy, nervous.

"This is hardly the same man who chastised me about my opinion about a certain garden of remembrance, Mr. Carson," she retorted, shaking her head, her eyes everywhere but on him. There was no scheming under butler, no bumbling but diligent police officer, or even an errant staff member to interrupt them. He could feel it, and he knew she could as well.

They were here, on their own. The only boundaries, the only limitations, were the ones they had tacitly agreed upon between themselves, all of these long years. He could feel the radiant warmth of her body, so very close to his, but still as far away as ever. How to close that gap? What could be done?

"I know better than to chastise _you_ , Mrs. Hughes," he responded, and now they were both standing in the doorway, the nighttime sounds of the great house above and around them, settling in for sleep.

"Do you, now?" She finally caught his eye, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That must have been a lesson you learned whilst I wasn't paying attention, Mr. Carson."

"Aren't you _always_ paying attention, Mrs. Hughes?" Ah, there it was again. This would never do. A truth disguised as flirting was, in the end, just the truth. And it was late, and they were as truly alone as they ever were, their affection for each other was bare, like an unwrapped gift sitting under the Christmas tree. Neither of them were sure quite how to handle, for fear it would break, but nor were they inclined to wrap it back in its tissue, tuck it back into the box.

"Aye, I suppose I am," she said simply, and shrugged, and he realized with a start she was very close to tears, this woman he so rarely saw overwrought. His mind held his exhausted heart and body in check, as they both desperately wanted to reach out and pull her towards him. He almost could _feel_ the slight weight of her pressing against him, her head falling to his chest, when, in reality, they weren't touching at all.

She was still looking at him, and he noticed her hand was reaching out towards him. Then she tucked it back, close to her middle, holding it still with the other. They both stared at each other for a moment, and his eyes flickered towards her hand again, held neatly against her body. It was like a bird that had escaped its cage, nearly, before being recaptured.

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to do. Little of it seemed possible, not here, not now. He opened his mouth, not entirely sure of what was going to come out.

"Can I help?"

She looked startled, her hand flew to her mouth. "I…I don't rightly know, Mr. Carson." She shook her head, as if to clear it. When she caught his eye again, her face was composed, and the worry had been tucked away somewhere.

"We best be off to bed, before it gets any later, wouldn't you agree?" And her voice was pleasant and composed and friendly, and she was, once again, completely out of his reach. "I was just stopping in my office to get my book, I'll not delay you any longer. Good night, Mr. Carson." And she was gone, closing her door softly behind her.

He stood there for several long moments, deciding, his heart pounding in his throat. He knew she wouldn't come back out until she was certain he had gone. But…could _he_ go to _her_? She needed…what, exactly? His body wouldn't leave his mind be. The only thing that kept running through his head was what it would feel like to wrap his arms around her, place one hand on her head, the weight of it against his chest. What a comfort that would be. What a _relief._

He knew something, maybe more than one thing, was troubling her. And the friendship they had enjoyed for years, decades, was no longer a solace to her, or to him. It simply wasn't _enough._ How had he gotten to this empty, quiet hallway, twenty feet from the woman he loved, wanting desperately to comfort her, but without recourse?

This, this was the other side of taking her hand, happy and nervous, on the beach last year. That moment had changed him. And now, he realized, he wanted to hold her hand in the sunshine, and to hold her close in the middle of the night. Without the rules, established for them by society, and by them, between themselves, complicit, until they were so tangled in them they could barely move towards each other.

There was only one solution to this loneliness, to this new understanding that their friendship was no longer enough:

If she'd have him, he must marry Elsie Hughes.


	5. At the Seams

**At the Seams**

She nearly didn't make it, she knows. Lord, she almost grabbed his wrist, pulled him towards her. _What then, ye daft fool? Sweep him into a passionate embrace?_

She felt crazed laughter burbling up inside of her; she quickly pressed her knuckles against her lips, biting into them to re-focus. She mustn't lose herself, not here, not until she was safely ensconced in her room, if at all. She knew he was still out there, standing in the doorway of his office. She could _feel_ him, just yards away, a door and a handful of great strides between them.

Her heart pounded in her ears, and she unclenched her hand. She didn't feel like laughing anymore, not really, and she was surprised to find her cheeks were damp with tears. She felt pushed just to the brink of her limit recently; the sad business with Lady Edith, the likelihood of Mr. Gregson's fate, and their secret wee _bairn_ , the looming fear in her heart that John Bates, indeed, had knowledge of and avenged the savage attack on his wife. And this silly disagreement about the war memorial….

But she knew it _wasn't_ about the war memorial, and it wasn't silly. Her heart was pounding so because _it_ at least understood, even if her mind did not. She had reached out, towards him, in the doorway of his office, because every part of her could feel that he wanted the same: for their bodies to touch, to give and receive comfort in the most natural of ways. So, it had been her hand reaching, her heart pounding, her pragmatic mind and sense of propriety trying to keep the former two at bay. Barely.

 _What, exactly, would ye do, if he burst in here, right now?_ She thought it, and turned towards the door quickly, as if wishing (Was that what she was doing? Wishing?) could cause something to be. It would be out of her hands, then, wouldn't it? What would happen…would happen. There was such an overwhelming sense of relief at that very thought she almost went limp with it. To _succumb_ to him, to the comfort of him. She nearly laughed again.

She walked calmly over to her desk, and grabbed the collection of Sherlock Holmes stories she'd been reading, knowing now that he wasn't going to come barging in, or even knock politely at her door; the time when it was a possibility had passed. He may have _wanted_ to. She knew he did. But…it simply wasn't _appropriate._ It wasn't part of the rules that governed – nay, _dictated_ – their lives.

And it was late. And, she supposed, as she headed towards her bedroom, it was a time for wishing, a time for dreams. Even if, tomorrow morning, they seemed rather unlikely to come true. In this moment, in the magic hours of the nighttime, they seemed possible.

oooOOOooo

Peace of mind seemed a dream, love and comfort impossibilities.

Had she _really_ thought her feelings frayed, her emotions worn through at the seams, in those late hours of that surreal night, a few weeks back, when the pair of them stood in the doorway of his office? What a fool she had been.

She was soldiering on, as she always had, as she _must,_ but threats seemed to linger around each corner. If Sgt. Willis was a puppy who happened to stumble on a particularly interesting scent, your Mr. Vyner was a well-trained hunting dog, honing in on his quarry. And Elsie wasn't sure if that was John Bates – or Anna. It seemed that every time one distraught person left her office, another one stepped in to replace them.

And the war memorial business. If she wasn't soothing a distraught Beryl Patmore, she was getting a dressing-down from the very man she wished would sooth _her._ Despite the apparent popular opinion that she held sway over Charles Carson, these days, she didn't feel that they'd had a real conversation in ages.

There was a knock at her door, and she sighed, looked up from her ledger, her mind on a dozen different worries.

"Come in," she didn't bother to keep the resignation out of her voice. Beryl Patmore appeared, a small tray with tea and biscuits clutched in one hand.

"Well, that's nice of you," she grinned, got up to pour herself a cup.

"The least I could do, seein' as you're givin' up your time off tomorrow to assist with my business venture," the cook grinned, sat down at her side table. Elsie joined her, took a ginger biscuit.

"You like the look of the place, then?" She smiled at her friend, excited for her, but slightly envious. There would be no property ownership in _her_ future, she could guarantee it. Not while Becky needed looking after.

"I do," Beryl Patmore grinned, biting into a biscuit herself. "It needs a bit of work, but I dare say we know of hard work, don't we, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Indeed we do, Mrs. Patmore," she cleared her throat, knowing she didn't have much time. Someone was imminently arriving to deliver terrible news to Lady Edith, which would send emotions spinning upstairs. And it seemed they couldn't get through a week without a policeman showing up and stirring things around. "I wonder, would you mind if Mr. Carson joined us?"

"Feeling a bit left out, is he?"

Elsie sighed, squeezed her hands together. "Is that entirely fair, Mrs. Patmore?"

"Well, life isn't always fair, is it, Mrs. Hughes? Like our Archie being left off'a the war memorial," the cook's eyes were filling up, and Elsie _did_ feel badly, and goodness knew, she'd wanted to give Charles Carson a good smack over the whole fiasco more than once. A good smack, then stroke his cheek…well, now, she _was_ going mad from all of the stress, wasn't she?

"He's trying to make it up to you, Mrs. Patmore, but…he has to save face, if you understand me," she spoke carefully, trying to keep her voice light.

"He's tryin' to get back in my good graces, and I suppose I should let him," Beryl Patmore stood, gathered the tray. "He's not a bad man, is he? Just terribly inflexible. I should have known, there was no swayin' him, if _you_ couldn't convince him."

"Again, I think you and everyone else in this house overestimates my influence on him."

"And _I_ think you _underestimate_ it, so we should just agree we're both wrong, and split the difference, eh?" She grinned as she left. "And we'll agree, I am sure, it's not only _my_ good graces he's trying to get back into."

oooOOOooo

They watched as Beryl Patmore hurried away, a satisfied look on her face. Elsie knew her friend was mollified and flattered that Mr. Carson was showing an interest in her business venture. As they made their way down the hall, she could see that _he_ was happy to be included in their outing. She tried to push away the idea that it might be to spend time away from Downton in her company…

"What are you grinning at, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I'm glad you two are friends again, that's all, Mr. Carson. It certainly makes _my_ life less…fraught," she turned to face him in the hallway.

"I…I hope _we_ are friends again, as well?" His eyebrow went up, the corners of his mouth went down.

"Aren't we always friends, you and I, Mr. Carson?" Her heart sped up, and she tried to keep her voice light, teasing. It was difficult when he was looking at her so earnestly.

"I do hope so, Mrs. Hughes, though I've felt we've been…at odds…recently."

She needed to flee this conversation, as a crowded hallway in the middle of the day was most certainly not the place and time to have it.

"Hope is a good place to start," she replied, and because nothing more could happen, she reached out and squeezed his arm, by his wrist. She saw his face soften, and she smiled a little, letting go, not wanting to, but needing to. "Now, we best be back to work, shouldn't we?"

"Yes, of course, back to work." The words were nothing, but the small smile on his face was everything.


	6. Flowers Love Notes & Other Grand Notions

**Wild Flowers, Love Notes & Other Grand Notions**

 **A/N: A glimpse at the young Charles Carson, even before he entered service OR a life on the stage. And a conversation with some of the first strong ladies in his life, inspiring him over fifty years later. ~CeeCee**

As a boy, Charles Carson always loved visits from his Aunt Charlotte. His mother's older sister often showed up on short or little notice, and was often gone in much the same way. Charlotte and Imogen, Charlie's mother, favored each other. Both women were tall and handsome, rather than beautiful, with the sharply arched eyebrows he had inherited from that side of the family, though overall fairer than he was. His dark hair and eyes came from his father, and his father's father.

However, though Imogen and Charlotte were only five years apart chronologically, they were ages away from each other in personality.

Imogen Carson was steady, reliable, and practical.

Charlotte Abbott was…not. She was an _actress._

Whereas young Charlie could hardly imagine a day without his mother, in her attractive but tidily simple dark gown, you never knew when Aunt Charlotte would show up, or in what state. She had a penchant for dresses with intricate lace bodices and marvelous hats.

One afternoon, when he was about thirteen or so, right before he left school and began working at Thrushcross Grange, he burst into the kitchen, ravenous. The past year and half he had grown nearly a foot, and couldn't seem to staunch his hunger for more than a few hours.

His eyes flew to the stove instinctively, seeking out his mother. But she was seated at the table with someone else, someone whom, if you only glanced quickly, appeared as a glamourous mirror image of her.

"Aunt Charlotte!" He exclaimed, tossing his books in the doorway.

"Charlie! Good God, Genie, what are you feeding the lad?" She laughed, stood, and Charlie realized that he was exactly her height, though not quite as tall his mother. Not yet. He was engulfed in a hug that smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, rose water and, way underneath those, tobacco. His aunt planted a kiss on his cheek, and he felt himself going red.

"Lord knows, Charlie," his mother replied. "I can hardly keep up with him, thank goodness he's the last of them, I've nothing left." Contrary to her words, she stood and bustled over to the ice box, pulling out a glass of milk and several large slices of buttered bread, which he methodically began to devour, before he even took a seat.

"It's good to see you, Charlie my boy," his aunt ruffled his hair, and he nearly shriveled with self-consciousness. His parents were reliable, loving – and not overly affectionate. And his aunt was a sporadically seen, exotic quasi-stranger who led a mysterious and even stranger life. _She ruffled his hair._ He didn't know _anyone_ like her. She made him nervous, but not in a bad way.

"It's good to see _you_ , Charlie my aunt," he retorted, very pleased with himself. He puffed up even more when she clapped her hands over her mouth, began laughing.

"Charlie! That's quite enough!" Imogen Carson turned and placed her hands on hips, a wooden spoon stuck out at an angle in one of her fists.

"Which one?" Charlie and his aunt asked at the same time, then collapsed onto the table, giggling.

"Honestly," his mother muttered, pouring him more milk. "Maybe you can gather yourself together, Charles Carson, and visit with your aunt _appropriately_. Tell her something of your scholastic successes? He's the top reader in the entire school, Charlotte. You should see the books he brings home, I understand them, for the most part, but _he_ breezes through them as if their first year primers."

"Well, I always knew he was the sharpest of your boys, Genie," Charlotte replied, running her hand reflexively along the side of her ear. Charles realized she was looking for her cigarette. He had seen older boys, boys out of school, tuck one in just the same spot. "Enough of what we already know; tell me something I _don't_ know: you've got a young lady, do you?"

"Charlotte, he may be as tall as you, but he's still a boy," his mother huffed, clearing his dishes away.

"I am not, Mum. I'll be fourteen in a few weeks," he said it with just as much impertinence he thought she would allow. And what his mother _didn't_ know was _of course_ he had a girl, well, except he didn't really _have_ her, he just quite liked the look and way of her, and was trying to let her know, if he could.

"See, Genie? There you have it. A grown man before us," Charlotte's eyes were twinkling. "You've brought her flowers, I expect? This young lady of yours?"

Charlie nodded when his mother's back was turned. His aunt was a thrilling creature, she honestly was. Had he really only been home fifteen minutes, and she was already wiggling some of his most treasured secrets out of him? In front of his mother, no less?

"You gave a girl flowers, Charles? What girl? That Jenkins lass, I reckon," Imogen narrowed her eyes at him. She was wrong. Molly Jenkins was a neighbor, and sweet enough, but nothing to catch his eye – or mind. He shook his head, and she must have seen he was telling the truth.

" _Who_ she is doesn't matter, except to Charlie," his aunt said. "It's how he goes about it, the wooing, that's important." His mother was saying something but his eyes were focused on his aunt. She had secrets to share with him, knowledge to impart. "If you're going to woo someone, it's best be done thoroughly, my boy. Does neither of you any good to do it half-way."

"He's _thirteen,_ Charlotte," his mother rolled her eyes. "He's not setting up for any of that, settling _down_ for a good ten years, at least."

"Well, I don't think he's looking for a steady sweetheart, Genie," Charlotte retorted. "Mayhaps, just a kiss behind the schoolhouse."

"What if it's both?" He felt himself flushing, hot and cold, but he couldn't seem to stop his confessions. That was what a visit with Aunt Charlie was: like rolling down a grassy hill in the summer for the thrill and madness of it, not noticing that you were exposing some of your most sensitive parts to be bruised or bumped, or maybe – just not really caring if they were.

The kitchen got quiet for a second. They the two women grinned at each other in a certain way, a way that he didn't quite understand. But somehow, he realized, they were both on the same side of the conversation now.

"Oh, it's like _that_ , is it?" His aunt grinned at him. "Well, you'll have to put a lot of thought into then, my boy."

"Wild flowers lifted from Mr. Browne's field won't do, not if you really mean it," Imogen added, a grin tugging at the side of her mouth. He was startled by his mother joining the conversation.

"I never took flowers from Mr. Browne's field!" He tried to sound indignant. It was, at least, _literally_ the truth. The flowers hadn't come from Mr. Browne's field.

"Maybe not – but your father did," his mother's eyes were sparkling in a way he rarely saw. She joined her sister and son at the table again. Charlie realized with a start that his mum, married and a mother by the time she was eighteen, had likely been courted by his father at an age not much older than his own.

"Your mum is right, Charlie," his aunt replied, grinning at her sister. "Flowers, they're all well and good, and they send a message – that you _admire_ someone. They she's caught your attention, in some way. Most nights, after a performance, my dressing room is _filled_ with flowers. From admirers I never even meet." Charlotte shrugged, reached for the missing cigarette again. Sighed.

"Well, what else, then?" He squeezed the words out. The conversation was so unusual and yes, exciting, he hardly knew where to look or what to say.

"Love notes," his mother replied. "Or, in your father's case – terrible poetry." Both of the women laughed, but his mother's face was soft.

"Pardon?" He couldn't manage more than that one barked word. The idea of his stern, hard-working father…writing _poems_. No, he simply couldn't imagine it.

"We were in school together, Charlie, as you know. And your father…well, he paid attention. He noticed that I adored when the teacher spent a few lessons reading some of Shakespeare's sonnets," Imogen paused, lost in a memory more than twenty years old. "At first, he left me copies of those sonnets. Then, he went a step further, and attempted to write his own, about _me._ "

"Ernie the poet," Charlotte muttered, smiling. "Who would have guessed?"

"No one but me, and if he hears a breath of this conversation, you'll both pay for it," she was smiling, but Charlie believed her. Besides, he couldn't think of one instance where he'd mention a single word of this conversation to his father. Not one.

"In any case, Charlie, if this is _love,_ the real thing, you must pay sharp attention to the lady in question. She must know that you really _see_ her, for who _she_ is," his mother concluded.

"And it doesn't guarantee success," his aunt added. "But, when it comes to wooing, my fine nephew, it's best to do it thoroughly, in any case. If she's worth loving, she's worth knowing your heart. It's best that she know of your intentions, especially if it _is_ love."

oooOOOooo

He stood in the hallway outside of her office, pausing on his way to ring the gong, remembering that conversation with the two woman, over fifty years ago. His younger self had been more agog that the conversation was even taking place, and he had been preoccupied by the young lady who'd turned his head at school, her name, if not her face, long forgotten.

He had remembered their advice five years hence, when he had fallen desperately in love with Alice Neal. There was a young woman who could have no doubt of Charlie Carson's feelings for her. He had wooed her; unsuccessfully, but he had done it whole-heartedly, and, in the end, was glad he had.

And now. He was back at it, this whole wooing business. He nearly laughed out loud at what his aunt and mother might think of his nearly seventy-year-old self, laying his heart at the feet of another woman.

He'd been paying attention to Elsie Hughes for a very, very long time now, in a variety of ways. But the past year, this attention was of a different sort; his attention needed to relay his _intentions._ He had entered her office with an idea, a sound one he thought: they should invest in a property together, as a business arrangement.

This idea was the wildflowers he was bringing to her doorstep, his way of expressing his admiration for her. But this wasn't admiration, this was love.

And he was paying attention.

And he had seen her face, when he had brought the idea to her, the flowers of a joint business venture.

Her face. Her dear, much-loved face, had been wide open, and he could see it very clearly: she had thought he was going to propose, right then and there. She must know his heart, in earnest, and soon.

This wooing business, it must be done thoroughly, as his aunt and mother had advised. Especially if it was love.

And this, _this_ , most certainly, was love.


	7. What's Possible

**What's Possible**

Well, that was that, then. Lady Rose married, and their stay in London coming to a close. She was happy for the young woman who, while she didn't have the depth and spirit of Lady Sybil, reminded Elsie of her cousin due to her kindness, generosity and genuine love of life.

She headed downstairs once she knew each of the family members were being sorted by their personal staff for the evening. She'd be happy to be back at Downton, frankly. She was a country girl, at heart, and though she loved a bit of bustle and glamour, she longed to be home. She felt this even more strongly on this visit for two reasons, neither of which had any basis in logic or reasoning, but were firmly rooted in her heart's desires.

The first was her desire to be heading _towards_ something: spending an afternoon, perhaps several, even, with Charles Carson, on their own, looking at properties she couldn't hope to buy, not if she lived another hundred years. But she was no fool; or rather, she was an _enormous_ fool, taking a chance on something: that this "business investment" had little to nothing to do with buying a property together, and _everything_ to do with spending the rest of their lives together.

Goodness, when he had walked in that morning, right before they left for London. Her heart had stopped. She swore she felt it. Everything just _froze,_ the air became crystalized and everything around her had gotten brighter, crisper.

She had been certain, for roughly an instant, he was going to propose to her, right then and there. And even though nearly every fiber of her being had felt galvanized with raw fear, for that moment, a thought flashed through her mind: _At last at last at last yes yes please_ …and then it was gone, but not entirely.

It was as if someone had pushed her outside into a freezing, snowy, beautiful wonderland in her shirtsleeves, and she was shivering and uncomfortable but filled with wonder and delight. But then, had reconsidered, brought her back inside, offered her a coat, gloves, a cup of hot tea, maybe something warm to eat? But the wonderland was _still there,_ she could see it, a glimpse of it, remember the icy mixture of fear with the awe of the beauty of it. She wanted to be there, she knew now. Though she was uncertain of the terrain.

She thought _he_ did too. He was just…preparing her. Preparing _himself._ Or so she fervently hoped. She shivered at the thought of it as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

The other reason she wanted to be back at Downton was far less pleasant. She wanted to get _away_ from something, from someone: the specter of Mr. Green's murder, of John or Anna Bates' potential culpability in it. Away from the mole-faced Mr. Vyner, with his intelligent eyes and notepad, on which he wrote God-knows-what. She knew this wasn't practical. The man could come to Downton, _had_ been there, more than once, but Elsie felt that he was circling in towards them, and he was bringing only hardship and pain to people she loved. She felt the need to flee, and soon.

And then, it was as if all of her unease and worry had coalesced, if only because she was thinking of it: Beryl Patmore was rushing towards her, looking worried. No, it was worse than that: she was near tears.

"What is it?" She asked, but she _knew._ Her stomach dropped, her hands grew cold.

"That detective from Scotland Yard is here," Beryl whispered. "In the kitchen. With a handful of other policemen. They have _handcuffs_ out, Mrs. Hughes."

She was already moving in the direction of doom, trying to ease the booming rush of blood pulsing through her head and heart.

"Ah. Mrs. Hughes," the man had the gall to act as if he was greeting her pleasantly on the street, in polite passing.

"What can we do for you at this late hour, Mr. Vyner?" She tread very closely on the line between formality and sternness. She wielded no power over this man. _Best not to antagonize him. It will do no good, and might only do harm._ She could feel the staff members who were in the servants' hall and kitchen gathering towards them. She didn't pay them mind.

"You're a sharp woman, Mrs. Hughes. You know why we're here," his face hardened. "We're here to arrest Anna Bates, on suspicion of the murder of Alexander Green."

She wanted to collapse, or fly at this man, push him from the house, rail at him never to darken their doorstep again. But she took a deep, shaky breath, ignored the gasps of the others around her.

"If you'll just tell us where we can find her, Mrs. Hughes, we'll leave you all to retire for the evening." The utter _gall_ of the man. As if _anyone_ under this roof would have a good night's sleep tonight.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Vyner, I cannot take you to her. She's in Lady Mary Crawley's private quarters, attending to her. It would be, as I am certain you can understand, entirely inappropriate for me to bring you to her at this moment," she was desperately trying to buy time.

"Then you will go fetch her for me, Mrs. Hughes. _Immediately,_ " his tone brokered no argument, and Elsie wasn't sure she'd ever despised someone so much in her life. "I will give you exactly ten minutes to bring Mrs. Bates down here. I am doing this _merely_ as a courtesy. I am well within my rights to find her, wherever she is and whomever she is attending, and arrest her on the spot. Please do not make me regret my decision."

Elsie turned and began moving. There was no way that man was pushing himself further into the house. She began walking towards the stairs. Beryl Patmore was by her side. She turned, whispered fiercely to her friend,

"Find Mr. Molesley, or Andrew, as fast as you can," she was already climbing the stairs. "Send him to get Mr. Bates and his lordship in his dressing room. And fetch Mr. Carson, if you possibly can."

Heavy of heart and mind, Elsie Hughes ascended the stairs to get Anna Bates.

oooOOOooo

He descended into the bowels of Grantham House in the wee hours of the morning. He could hardly get the shocking scene in the kitchen from a few hours ago out of his mind:

 _Anna Bates, her slight, fair form, led away in handcuffs. John Bates, struggling to remain upright, his face working with anger and terror and pain. Lady Mary, close to tears, railing at the detective, her proud words no protection for her lady's maid. And Elsie Hughes, small, determined, pale, looking as if she'd expected this, all along. Not because Anna_ _was guilty, certainly not, but because there was far more to this story than he himself knew, and he was almost certain_ she _did._

He had exchanged a look with her over the heads of Lady Mary and John Bates. Her eyes gestured upstairs, she had nodded, sighed. He felt himself sighing in response. That was all it took between them for them both to understand: he would handle assisting everyone upstairs, whilst she managed things down here. Apart, they could be of best assistance to those who needed them. Well, aside from each other.

But now he was here, walking through the empty, silent, not-quite-familiar hallways and rooms, feeling even more disconcerted because he wasn't at Downton, wasn't at _home_. He was almost certain she would have retired by now, but he walked past the housekeeper's pantry anyway. Even if was to see her, just to say good night. The door was shut, and the room beyond seemed as still and quiet as the rest of the downstairs quarters.

But then. He heard something. He heard _her._

A shift, a rustle of her skirt. A small, lonely sound, that became the watery, plaintive sound of stifled sobs. His heart squeezed in his chest as he placed his hand on the door. It was all that stood between him and comforting her. Except, that wasn't true, was it? So much more stood between them, all of the years, the propriety, his sense of what was appropriate, her sense of independence. He'd no sooner intrude on her private grief than walk into her bedroom.

He had no right. Not now. Not _yet._

Stroking the door briefly, wishing it was her hair, her cheek, he turned away and headed towards a sleepless night.

oooOOOooo

 _You_ must _gather yourself together,_ she thought as she hurriedly changed from the outfit she wore to the war memorial ceremony, and back into her sober housekeeper's dress. _This will never do, and it doesn't do_ anyone _any good to fall to pieces, least of all Anna, or Mr. Bates._ And she knew her responsibilities didn't end there; the staff would look to her for comfort, reassurance and steadiness. The mood of the employees would be in direct proportion to their superiors.

But…her well-managed façade had cracked a bit, on the walk back to Downton. She had turned her face briefly away from his concern, fighting back tears. He had spoken sensibly and reasonably, with kindness and warmth, and exactly as appropriately as she assumed he would, amidst the staff and the Crawley family.

They carried on walking together in silence for a few moments, and then he cleared his throat. She glanced over at him. He was studying her intently.

"You might take my arm, Mrs. Hughes, if you are still feeling _unsteady,_ " there was just a slight pressure on the last word, and the corner of his mouth was turning up, just a little. "You always can."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, I believe I will," and her heart had sped up a little as she returned his grin, tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, aware of the soft pressure of each place their arms met. Remembering the warm feeling of his hand over hers, by the sea, on that simply perfect day. They had spoken very little the rest of the way back, both of them far more focused on the proximity of each other, the syncopation of their steps.

She checked her mirror to ensure her hair was tidy, and everything was in place. She was feeling much more herself, calmer, _steadier._ She supposed she knew why. Every day, even the difficult ones, like these, she and he, they seemed to be moving closer to something. Something she may have not thought possible, not even on that beach over a year ago.

She gave herself one last look-over, smoothed a stray hair into place. _Who knows, exactly, what's possible?_ She smiled at herself, and headed back to work.


	8. The Weight of Hope

**The Weight of Hope**

 **A/N: Okay, so, I'll not force your hand or anything, but anyone who HASN'T read AHoM might want to pop over and read Chapter 17 ("House Hunters") as there will be references to it herein. And, well, I really AM one for canon writing, but after a lovely PM chat with CSotA, I might** ** _veer_** **a little in the next few chapters, nothings mad, mind you, but things might happen that would strain the credulity of calling this fic "in canon." ;-)**

They arrived back at Downton in the late afternoon, parting ways, for the moment, in the hallway by the kitchen. Some of the novel freedom, the casualness, of the day had been rubbed away, now that they had returned, but bits and pieces of their conversation kept floating through her mind as she hung up her coat and hat in her pantry.

 _"That's the point, we'd_ share _the duties…"_

 _"A bright future doesn't have to be the sole domain of the young, Mrs. Hughes…"_

She knew Beryl Patmore was preparing dinner for the small group of the senior staff members remaining at Downton, and that it would be ready imminently, but she sat for a moment at her small desk, thinking. About how good, how _right_ it felt to tuck her arm into the crook of his elbow. The simple joy of sharing a lunch hamper with him, without having to worry about passers-by interrupting them, or pondering the appropriateness of their interactions. _Of being mistaken for a married couple._

The idea of something _more_ from him had always caused flutters in her whole being; it still did. It was something she rarely allowed herself to contemplate fully, because it sent her whole being into a tizzy. Her thoughts, emotions, the sensations of her _body,_ became untidy, frenetic. It was too easy to lose control. But…well, today had her thinking. She had said him on more than one occasion in the past few months, certain people seemed to chase happiness, all for naught.

She had never felt luck either favored or ignored her, until now. Wouldn't she be a bit of a fool to disregard the luck she was enjoying now, in this particular area of her life? She felt a tug, for certain, on her conscience, that she hadn't told him yet of her financial situation, or, more importantly – of Becky. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that luck was on her side, that the _something_ they both had been waiting for had been set into motion, when Beryl Patmore received that inheritance, and came to him for advice on how to spend it.

And, as if summoned by her musings, the cook appeared at her door, which was ajar.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes," her friend smiled at her, looking well out of her apron and cap. "I've set us up, informal-like, in the kitchen for dinner, as it will just be a few of us. Thought it might be nicer, cozier, this way, especially considering Mr. Bates, and all the stress that poor man's been through."

She nodded, and her heart felt heavy, thinking of tender-hearted Anna sitting in a prison cell. But she was stronger than most people gave her credit for, and she would survive this. Sometimes, Elsie wondered that it wasn't _Mr._ Bates who would crumble under the pressure of it all.

"I think it's a fine idea, Mrs. Patmore, and while your picnic lunch was much appreciated, I believe Mr. Carson and I've worked up an appetite, traipsing up and down the county," she grinned.

"Any luck, then, the two of you?" Beryl raised an eyebrow at her. _I hope so…_

"Well, there are certainly some options with promise, I think, and Mr. Carson agrees," she spoke carefully. Both women knew they weren't _really_ discussing boarding houses.

"I don't doubt that, Mrs. Hughes, not a'tall," the cook looked as if she might be biting back laughter.

"There's one spot in particular that Mr. Carson seems to really like the look of," she replied, knowing her cheeks were growing pink and not being able to do a thing about it.

"Perhaps small beer is more to his taste than he previously thought, eh, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Well, mayhaps your investment inspired Mr. Carson – what do you think of _that,_ Mrs. Patmore?" Elsie retorted, deciding that she could handle a bit of well-meaning teasing from her friend.

"Maybe," Mrs. Patmore grinned. "I'm not entirely sold on that idea, though, Mrs. Hughes. I feel that his _inspiration_ comes from another source…or, what do they call it, his _muse,_ that's it. It's not _me_ he wants to invest in a property with, now, is it?"

Elsie rolled her eyes, but laughed a little shakily. "I suppose not, Mrs. Patmore." She was somewhat mollified to see her friend's face flush as well.

"We understand each other, then, Mrs. Hughes," the cook's chuckles were added to hers.

"I wish I understood a bit more, to be honest, Mrs. Patmore."

"Your little finger, Mrs. Hughes," now the cook's eyes were twinkling in earnest. "Just remember, if you're lost about it all, look no further than your little finger."

Elsie knew the punchline to this particular joke. "I think I smell our dinner burning, Mrs. Patmore."

"Wrapped _right_ around it, he is, mark my words, whether you believe it or not," she paused, giggling, to catch her breath. "Dinner'll be ready in about thirty minutes, and not a burnt dish in sight. See you then, Mrs. Hughes."

oooOOOooo

He supposed he could admit when he was wrong, even if it was only to himself. He had bristled at the _idea_ of Daisy joining them at their intimate dinner, but in the end, the group they formed around the table, while not what he would call perfect on paper, wound up being a cozy one, even lively, at times, excepting John Bates.

And it while it would be entirely understandable for the man to be distracted and morose, he seemed to rouse himself, possibly because of the hope Mr. Murray's meeting presented, but likely also due to the warmth and friendship around the table. The trio of ladies kept the conversation flowing from topic to topic, Elsie Hughes prompting Daisy to discuss her studies, with Mr. Molesley as an eager listener.

He realized as Mrs. Patmore brought a simple pudding over to the table, he'd not enjoyed an evening meal so much in ages. He was in his street clothes, rather than his livery, not presiding at the head of the table with the required up and down of the staff, the scraping of the chairs in and out.

As Elsie Hughes poured out a small _digestif_ for everyone, he caught her eye, and she smiled. He rather liked being seated beside her; it was a very different sensation than sitting caddy-corner. He couldn't _see_ her as well as when they dined in the servants' hall, but he could _feel_ her, the warmth radiating from her body. He could _smell_ her, lavender and vanilla and something else, just the smell of _her,_ familiar yet so enticing.

They all lingered long after the food and drink were gone, with John Bates excusing himself first. Elsie Hughes rose up as well, and stepped around the table to grasp his arm.

"We'll be thinking of you both, Mr. Bates. Please let us know how everything goes. You know Mr. Murray will do all he can, his lordship has seen to that," she held the man's gaze, and Charles noted that each of them had tears hanging precipitously in their eyes, though none had fallen.

"I thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I thank you _all_ , for your support," and with a nod, he was gone. They all fell silent, and they all felt it: the evening, the dinner, was over. Everyone stood, nearly as one.

"Mrs. Patmore, _Daisy,_ I would like to thank you for the delicious meal, and the wonderful conversation," he said, and both women looked as if they'd been smacked with frying pans. Daisy's cheeks grew pink.

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Carson," she nodded, cleared the last of the glasses from the small table.

"I daresay you enjoyed it more than eating with the housemaids?" Beryl Patmore grinned, but there was no malice in her teasing.

"I daresay I did, thank you very much, Mrs. Patmore," he paused, cleared his throat. "It was a rather… _comfortable_ dinner party you arranged for us all."

The cook's face softened a little, and he saw her eyes dart over to Elsie Hughes, whom he could see, from the corner of his eye, was taking in the exchange. "Well, you're quite welcome, Mr. Carson. It _was_ rather enjoyable."

The small group dispersed with goodnights, and he found himself in the hallway outside of his office with Elsie Hughes. He wanted to invite her into his study for another glass of wine, but, for some reason, the invitation suddenly seemed fraught with…complications. No, no. That wasn't right. With… _possibilities._

It was the culmination of this entire day, spent by her side. Sometimes, her arm tucked into his, lingering. Their conversation over their picnic lunch, happily people watching. The lovely young couple, excited by their own good news, mistaking the pair of them for husband and wife. He'd not denied it. He felt her tense when the young lad who'd just found out he was going to be father made the erroneous observation. At first, he thought she was embarrassed by the mistake. But…no. She was worried _he_ would be bothered by it.

And now, they were standing here, on their own, the trappings and duties of their daily lives nearly invisible, aside from the house itself surrounding them. What happened to the rules, now? What would happen to them, if they were behind closed doors?

They both were _just standing there_ , in the hallway. He realized it had been a longer time than necessarily usual, but he wasn't sure exactly how to proceed, nor, obviously, was she. He had a well-thought out plan for it all, as his mother and aunt had advised him all of those years ago. The house, the _investment property_ was the first step…then a marriage proposal. But at the end of this long, rather wonderful day, why did that seem…out of order? Or…did the order _really_ matter?

She finally cleared her throat. "Well, Mr. Carson. I best grab my coat and hat from the pantry, and be off to bed." She was looking everywhere but at him.

"Mrs. Hughes…would you like to join me for a final nightcap, before retiring?" His heart was pounding in his throat, the blood rushing in his ears, waiting for the answer.

He saw how she suddenly stilled, sighed. Her eyes finally met his, and he could see how flushed she was, her cheeks stained pink. The seconds stretched out interminably, and he was considering that he had, perhaps, offended her. Suddenly, all of the safe, known things about how they related to each other seemed difficult to navigate.

"Would I…" her words trailed off, so that he wasn't sure if it was a question, a statement, or a wish. Maybe it was all three. She shook her head a little, and smiled. He wasn't sure, exactly, why that smile looked….a touch rueful.

"This was a lovely day," she said and he almost fell over. He wasn't sure he'd been so surprised by her words since that day on the beach in Brighton.

"I certainly agree, from start to finish." His heart was still racing, but not uncomfortably so. He felt a rush of warmth, from head to toe. They were _still_ standing in this blasted hallway.

"And…I do believe, I must retire, Mr. Carson," she replied. His heart fell a little, but then, oh, then:

Before he could quite understand what was happening, her hand was on his arm, and her lips pressed briefly, chastely against his cheek. He felt her sigh, smelled lavender.

Then, she was gone, her hurried footsteps clicking down the hall, leaving him with the warm imprint of her lips on his face, and the warm weight of hope in his heart.


	9. Our Little Dream

**Our Little Dream**

Oh, dear. Oh, _dear._

Well, it couldn't be undone now, and she wasn't really sure she _wanted_ it to be. During the week that followed that lovely day and somewhat surreal evening, she vacillated between utter pragmatism: _Well, there's no misreading_ that _, then, ye daft woman. He's bound to get a clue, now_ …to utter insecurity: _Maybe so, but ye've not been completely honest with him, ye haven't, Elsie. He cares, there's no denying that, but does he care enough to take you as you are? A pauper, with a burden of a sister to bear, for the rest of your life? Oh, and a_ liar, _to boot?_

As the days went by, she realized that the truth _would_ come out. She had forced her own hand in the matter, and, though her pride revolted at the thought, there was a wild freedom about the idea as well. He would see _her¸_ as she was, warts and all, and the cards would fall as they may.

The inevitability of it was clear in the lingering, thoughtful looks he gave her, when he didn't know she was paying attention to them. The way that her heart sped up when she saw him, or heard his voice. The _something_ they had been heading towards all year, or, more likely, since that moment she took his hand on the Brighton beach, was nearly here. She could feel it, in her bones. In her _heart._

How she had wanted, at that late, magical moment in the deserted hallway, to take him up on his offer of a nightcap, despite that the invitation terrified her as well. But...it simply hadn't seemed fair, in her mind. He thought they each knew the shape of the other, but the secret of her sister changed things. Thinking of what may have happened, behind the closed doors of his pantry, with one extra glass of wine each….

Well.

Even as it stood, she'd not escaped her own feelings, or his, which filled that empty hallways with so many unspoken desires. Or without that kiss, which she could not have stopped herself from planting on his dear face if her life depended on it.

And now, she was wondering if it might. Not her _life_ , exactly, but the shape of the rest of it.

oooOOOooo

 _This will never do_ , he sat there, everything inside of him a complete jumble. After John Bates' hurried knock and worried face had interrupted them, they both sat in a charged, uncomfortable silence. He was deeply ashamed of himself, for not understanding her better. He had been so confident in his plan, in the way things would happen…for naught.

The investment property, working together on a project that was about _them_ , not their roles at Downton, it was meant to lead towards something. Towards…a proposal of a different sort. And now, his well-laid plan was in tatters.

 _Pay_ attention, _Charlie my boy,_ his aunt's voice floated through his mind. _What_ really _matters? The property? The business agreement? The_ plan? _No, my dear boy, all that matters is sitting right across from you, looking as if her heart is about to break._

"Right," he murmured, and she looked up at him, slightly startled. Could she really think he wouldn't want her now? He was certainly thrown off by the revelation of her sister, but he had spoken honestly: he was ashamed of himself, and very aware of his own culpability in her editing of her life to him. How had he lived and worked, how had he _loved_ her, for so very long, without knowing? Without _sharing_ the burden of it, with her? He could _do_ something about it, right now.

He stood, and her eyes followed him. He walked towards her, and she shifted in her seat, then rose to stand beside him.

"Mr. Carson, I –"

"Mrs. Hughes, you'll forgive me for interrupting, I hope," he searched her face for confirmation, and she nodded, not quite meeting his gaze. "You called this…this venture 'our little dream' just now, and I have to agree with you." He gathered himself. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear the whisper of his livery shifting as the strongest muscle in his body beat nearly out of his chest.

Suddenly, her eyes stopped looking for a place to land, and fixed on his. He saw her take a small breath, place her hand on her chest.

"And, I suppose, what I _want_ to say, is that dream doesn't have to –"

He was cut off by the door flying open. Whether there had been a knock, or not, he couldn't say. He wasn't sure if _she_ could have, either, they had both been so focused on each other.

But now, John Bates stood in the doorway, and the man looked truly wretched, fighting back tears.

"Mr. Murray, he says there's no hope," the man's throat worked up and down, a crazed, desperate, far-away sheen in his eyes, thinking of his imprisoned wife. "She's been positively identified, the case is nearly fool-proof for the court. Anna will be convicted. My wife will hang, for something she couldn't possibly have done, not in a million years, and no matter what that devil did to her."

And he was gone from the doorway before either of them could react, his uneven footsteps echoing down the hall. After several shocked moments, Elsie Hughes rushed forwards, calling out, her voice as distressed as he'd ever heard it:

"Mr. Bates! Please, wait!" She clapped both of her hands over her mouth, realizing her indiscretion. She shut the door and leaned against it, supporting herself. He could see she was shaking.

"Anna…" she said, looked up at him. She shook her head back and forth. "How could this possibly happen?"

"Mrs. Hughes, I believe you ought to sit down, this is all very shocking," he moved towards the door, where she was still leaning, with no thought but to help her, as best as he could, his mind and heart unable to keep up with the onslaught of changes being pelted at them this afternoon. In his confusion, he pictured himself leading her to her side table, prompting her to sip the celebratory wine he'd brought in less than half an hour ago.

But when he reached her, she gripped his arm tightly, and he realized she was doing so because she _needed_ to, she was almost falling over. It hit him then how much she had taken on, this strong, staid, caring woman, how she'd known, all along, what had happened to Anna, had counseled her and helped her through an experience of violence he couldn't even imagine. The burden of the younger woman's pain, and of her secret.

The rules didn't really seem to matter anymore, in the least. He put his arms around her before he could even think to do it. They moved of their own accord. He felt hers creep around his middle and hold tight. He face fell against his chest, and he placed his hand against the smoothness of her hair. He wasn't sure how a moment could be so wonderful and terrible at the same time; her grief skewered his heart, but his ability to comfort her with his touch was ecstasy.

He could feel her trembling, sobbing, the weeks, months - maybe even _years,_ if she was thinking on her sister – of stress, secrets, supporting everyone else around her, without solace finally crashing down around her. She sounded as if her heart was breaking, which simply wouldn't do. Because he knew something, in this moment: her heart belonged to _him_ , and he must care for it, as best as he could.


	10. That Tender Part of Yourself

That Tender Part of Yourself

 **A/N: Okay. So. I positioned this S5 fic as being an off-shoot of AHoM, but I am veering from my own canon a little in this chapter. I feel like every fic has its own flavor and feeling, and this one is a bit more…moody…than AHoM. More FRAUGHT, if you will. Maybe because Season 5 was a tough road for our 'ship, and especially for Elsie. This story just needs a slightly different pre- and post-proposal narrative.**

 **Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and mostly, for welcoming me into this fandom with enthusiastic, open arms.**

 **Xoxo,**

 **~CeeCee**

 **PS – The watch she gives him is an AHoM reference. You'll have to read the Xmas 1924 Chapters therein if you want to know what's what. ;-)**

She barely allowed herself to think about that evening much at all the next week or so. His arms around her, the smell of his livery in her nose, the feeling that she had, the _certainty_ , that he was about to propose to her, really, this time, until Mr. Bates' second, more desperate interruption. And then, the determined valet had disappeared, leaving a paper trail of faux guilt in his wake. His wife was freed, but bereft.

When she finally caught her breath, she began to feel, well, _embarrassed._ She thought of herself, clinging to him, like a drowning woman to driftwood. In the length of a conversation and the time it took her hand to grasp his arm, her true self was revealed: deeply fallible, false and destitute. She wasn't, quite, the woman he'd thought she was. That was neither wrong nor right – it simply _was._ She had revealed herself, then been further exposed by the stress and pressure of the situation.

Oh, she was sure that he loved her, or, at least, he loved the woman he'd _thought_ she was, prior to that evening. It would spin your head around, how quickly everything could change between the top of the hour and half-past it. And he had been kind, and supportive, and dare she think it – _tender._

Yes. He had been _tender_. She knew his heart was softer than most thought possible; many people thought him a good-hearted but rather rigid person. Oftentimes, _she_ did as well. But…hadn't she seen his face when they'd gotten the news Lady Sybil had died? Didn't she see echoes of the same, when he gazed at her daughter? Or how his sad, worried eyes had tracked Lady Mary, in the months after Matthew Crawley died?

Or the way his hand had rested lightly on her head, as she wept? How he'd averted his eyes as she gathered herself together, finished calming herself? He had handed her one of the wine glasses he had filled and sat in silence, waiting for her to speak. And, when she felt completely sure she wouldn't betray herself, she had, _they_ had, spoken of nothing and everything, except the softest, most delicate things they were each holding on to.

And now she was waiting, inside that fragile place. They both were, she thought. Everything seemed perfectly normal between the two of them, but they'd caught a glimpse of what it might be like, to bare the most breakable parts of themselves to each other.

She sat in her office, surrounded by the cheery pile of Christmas gifts she'd been wrapping when he'd come to tell her about closing on the house. And that's _all_ he had said about it. Was she still…tied to his plans? To his heart? To the dreams that she'd _hoped_ they were building together? Or had he reconsidered?

Mr. Molesley had interrupted them, and he'd been gone again. She looked down at the small box which contained his gift. The watch would convey _her_ wishes very clearly; or rather, the inscription would. He _must_ realize how she felt; it seemed pointless to pretend otherwise.

She sighed, looked around, grabbed another gift to wrap. She so did love Christmas, it was such a hopeful, happy time of year. There was something almost _magical_ about it. She sighed, fervently hoping that some of that Christmastide spirit would work in her favor. She was humming "O Come All Ye Faithful" quietly to herself when there was a knock at her door. It didn't sound like Mr. Carson's knock; her heart leapt in her chest, nonetheless.

 _Keep yourself together, woman,_ _none of that falling apart business anymore,_ she grinned ruefully at herself.

"Come in!"

The door flew open and Anna was standing there, trembling…but smiling. "Mrs. Hughes, you'll never believe it." She took a deep breath, put her hand over her heart.

"Well, I just might, but let's get you settled first," she stood, led the other woman to her side table. "What is it? I can see it's good news? Or I hope so?" She sat across from Anna, watching her carefully.

"It is, or it _will_ be," Anna shook her head, smiled a little. "You'll never believe me when I tell you – you'll remember, Mr. Bates always said he'd spend the day Mr. Green was killed in York, but he couldn't remember the pub he'd had lunch in?"

"Indeed I do...but not much to be done, given the number of pubs in York," Elsie shook her head.

"That's just it," Anna breathed deeply, and Elsie could see tears shining in her eyes. "Mr. Molesley…Miss Baxter, they found the place. The pub where Mr. Bates had lunch. And they remember him being there! Don't you see? He'll have to come back now, there's proof his confession was false, Mrs. Hughes." The tears spilled over, and she brushed them away

"I…don't think I'm comprehending exactly what you're saying, Anna," Elsie's mind was working through what the lady's maid had just told her. "Mr. Molesley? _Miss Baxter?_ What've they to do with all of this?"

Anna laughed, the tears spilling down her cheeks again. "They spent their days off, Mrs. Hughes, nearly since Mr. Bates left, going to York, and visiting as many pubs as they could, until they found the right one."

"They never did," Elsie felt breathless. "How extraordinary." She could hardly comprehend the pair's kindness and diligence.

"They did, Mrs. Hughes, and now my husband can come home, at last," Anna stood and Elsie followed suit. She wrapped her arms around the woman she felt could have been her daughter, in another place, another life. As she patted Anna's back, she saw Phyllis Baxter hurry past in the hallway. She let go of Anna, and called out,

"Miss Baxter!" The woman turned, enveloped in that languid calm that seemed to continually surround her.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes, how can I help?" She saw Anna standing there, her face still slightly blotchy from her tears, and suddenly reddened. Before either of the other women could speak, Anna moved forward, and grabbed the other lady's maid's hand.

"Miss Baxter, I cannot begin to thank you – or Mr. Molesley – for what you've done," Anna took a shaky breath, and continued. "Mrs. Hughes called it 'extraordinary' and I'm inclined to agree." She squeezed the other woman's hand tightly.

Phyllis Baxter's face grew slightly pinker, which Elsie didn't think was possible. "Mrs. Bates, I cannot imagine what you – or Mr. Bates – have been through these past few months. I am just glad to have been a _help_ , even in a small way."

"You might be downplaying your own role in confirming Mr. Bates' innocence, Miss Baxter," Elsie interjected, feeling the grin rise to her face. Things were looking up, certainly. _Christmas magic, and a little good luck…that's what we_ all _could use_.

"Oh, not at all, Mrs. Hughes," the woman shook her head, and then smiled, a large, genuine smile that lit up her whole face. "It was Mr. Molesley's idea, the whole thing. He planned each trip meticulously, to be certain we didn't miss a single spot. He knew just the right questions to ask, depending on the person, in every place." She was beaming, and Elsie Hughes' heart squeezed a bit in her chest. Joseph Molesley wasn't really anyone's idea of a hero…except, well, he'd certainly proven he _was_ one, hadn't he? Miss Baxter had seen it, before anyone else had.

Anna grinned at both of them. "I don't disagree with you there, Miss Baxter, except to say you were probably more of a help to Mr. Molesley than you likely know. I'd love to thank him as well, and we both best head up to help the ladies dress for dinner, shouldn't we?"

"Off with you both, then," Elsie smiled and nodded, and they turned and hurried together, down the hallway. She stared at the pair of them thoughtfully, thinking on what she knew of Miss Baxter's past. Not all that much, certainly nothing she'd discussed anyone, including the woman herself, once that loathsome Mr. Vyner had outed her. And yet… _there_ was a woman with a secret, with a _past_ , one might even say. She wondered if Mr. Molesley knew of it, and how much. She wondered if it mattered to him, a man entirely different than Mr. Carson, but as personally bound and beholden to the rules as the older man was, especially those with moral implications.

 _Mayhaps, that's what love_ really _is,_ she mused. _Knowing every version of a person, and_ still _choosing to march through this life with them, to_ witness _them, completely. The tender spots, the sore spots, the secret places we all have…_ her pondering was cut short by the sight of the two women meeting Mr. Carson at the foot of the stairs, conversing with him briefly, before rushing upwards.

He reached her a minute later, eyebrow raised. "So, I gather you know then, Mr. Molesley's grand scheme for proving Mr. Bates' innocence?"

"It's quite grand, isn't it, Mr. Carson?" She smiled up at him, feeling good, feeling _hopeful,_ even though things were still so unsettled between them. "What he and Miss Baxter did, it's true generosity of spirit. Makes me feel like it really _is_ Christmastime."

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyebrow descended. Something softened in his eyes. "You're right, of course, Mrs. Hughes. It was very good of them, to use their time off. I'd not thought it possible when Mr. Molelsey pulled me from your office to tell me, truthfully, though I was sorry for the interruption."

She waved her hand at him, as warmth and hope blossomed in her chest. "Oh, Mr. Carson, we're _always_ interrupted, you and I. You'd have to set out mighty grand plans, or have an extraordinary bit of good luck, to avoid it, I think," she paused, took a chance. "You were just trying to sneak a glance at your gift, I expect."

"I most certainly was _not,_ Mrs. Hughes," he cleared his throat. "And, in any case, I thought you set more store in industry, rather than good luck, at least as it pertains to yourself?"

"Aye, it usually is a bit of both, when it comes down to it," she shrugged, trying to ignore the impulse to brush his hair away from his forehead. It was difficult. "But it _is_ Christmastime, and miracles seem more likely; and what's a miracle, if not exceptional good luck?"

"You're hoping for a Christmas miracle, then, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Maybe I am, Mr. Carson. Maybe I am."


	11. The Falling Snow

**A/N: You all might find this approach…odd. Unusual, at least. I just don't know that we need to completely rehash the actual moment of the proposal, as portrayed in canon. And those of you who read AHoM will likely notice a throwback to a very early chapter therein. Anywhoodles, here we go….**

 **…and Happy Thanksgiving to American readers!**

Things simply hadn't gone as planned, not even one step of the way. And each time something unexpected had gotten thrown into the works, it took him longer to regroup, to adjust _the plan_. He liked to think he knew himself rather well after nearly seventy years, his own strengths and weaknesses. He was diligent, to be certain. However, he wasn't much of an _improviser_.

He _almost_ improvised. Almost. That evening when she'd revealed the existence of her sister, and her reliance on her job at Downton, to care for her; that she wasn't, in fact, a respectably well-off woman of service, nearing retirement, but rather a dedicated caretaker who would have to work until she could work no longer. He'd nearly proposed, then and there. It was because of something so simple, so stark, that she had said, a single word: she had called their house-hunting endeavor, their joined plans, a "dream."

He had felt so many things, in those moments before John Bates' first interruption; confusion, sadness, disappointment, and mostly, shame at himself, for not seeing her more clearly, for not being able to share the likely near-daily stress of the financial and practical care of an unwell family member. And, in that moment, he'd risen with the intention of proposing to her, everything else be damned. It was spontaneous, something driven by what he felt, deep in the most secret places of himself, about her, about _them._ Their friendship, their partnership, in running this household simply wasn't enough, and he instinctively reached for something that _was_.

And then it had all fallen apart again, and she'd wept and clung to him, and his heart had broken for her, but swelled with something else: the very real feeling of her in his arms, her face pressed against his chest, of providing the most basic, essential comfort one person could give another: the comfort of touch. And in those barest moments, he might have voiced his question to her, his proposal; but she had calmed, and so had he, and she had retreated, back to a place that was familiar and safe for both of them.

 _He_ was not a man of impulses, but of intentions, of plans.

 _She_ was a woman of dignity, of strength, who had been forced, by his actions, to reveal the weakest parts of herself.

He had considered his options, in the days after Mr. Bates' disappearance. And when he had finalized the paperwork for the property, he felt deeply satisfied – and deeply nervous – to see their names aside each other on the deed. He had wished the real estate agents a Happy Christmas, fervently hoping the same for himself.

She had been genuinely happy for him when he told her he closed on it, and they had sat companionably, chatting over the stacks of presents that cheered her pantry, the happy industry and generosity of her gift-wrapping filling the space with the warmth and joy of the season. Sitting there with her, he made his choice – he would propose to her on Christmas Eve.

That day had begun with a flurry of snowflakes across the village and a flurry of activity in the kitchens and downstairs. As he walked by the bustle of the kitchen midday, he saw her tasting the punch Andy held out to her, nodding and smiling. She complimented Daisy on the meal preparation, and then he heard her say to the young cooking assistant,

"Anything could happen for you, that's a wonderful feeling."

That had firmly decided him. _Anything could happen…_ including a marriage proposal, here in this house, on this day.

And now, here they were, slipping away from the Christmas revelry upstairs, and his heart was beating a steady staccato in his chest, and he wondered if she _knew_ , and whether she would be pleased or nervous or _offended._ He didn't want to insult her. He wanted her to know that it didn't just have to be a dream, something to awaken from and forget, left only with a vague feeling of peace and contentment; he wanted her to know that this could be _real._

As he closed the pantry door behind him and turned towards her, he was certain they would both leave this room forever changed.

oooOOOooo

She could scarcely believe it. Not that he'd asked, not really, not if she examined the parts of herself she tended to ignore, the romantic and dreamy bits that she tucked way down inside, underneath the pragmatism and practicality that ruled her days.

But, _oh_.

To know, to be _utterly certain_ , that he loved her, flaws and burdens and all. He wanted to be _stuck_ with her. Everything inside of her was spinning in a terrifying but rather pleasant way as she headed up the stairs beside him, back to their duties on this most magical of nights. They reached the door back into the great hall and he paused.

She grinned up at him. "I wonder, Mr. Carson, if they'd notice if we never returned for the duration of the evening?" Then she felt herself blushing, realizing how that _might_ have sounded, though it wasn't what she meant, not really. It was just that she wanted to hold onto this feeling, this warm, secret, _intimate_ feeling that pulsed between the two of them right now. She was loath to see other people, lest it dissipate.

He gazed down at her, his eyebrow going up, his eyes warm in a way that sent thrills down the back of her neck and in the base of her stomach. The corner of his mouth tugged up in a responding smile, and she saw his cheeks redden as well. "What's most likely, Mrs. Hughes, is precisely the wrong people would notice."

"Aye, I suppose you're right," she shook her head, "Besides, I'm no green girl, about to lose my head over a proposal, I expect, Mr. Carson, even if it is from _you._ Nay, I expect we have a long evening ahead of us. This Christmas Eve is no different than any other, really, aside from the obvious." The breathless, fluttery feeling that existed right in the center of her chest wasn't new, exactly, but it had been years since she'd felt it. She was no green girl, no, but she certainly felt like one, at this moment, standing so close to him on the landing.

"No, Mrs. Hughes, you are no green girl, nor I a young man courting," he was looking carefully at her, his hand on the door knob. She recognized that look; it was the same as when they both finally landed on the same side of the war memorial debate. And as it had then, it made her wish she could tidy herself up, make sure everything was in place. "No green girl, Mrs. Hughes, but lovelier than a dozen of them, for the years you have lived, in grace and intelligence, since."

The butterflies in her chest took flight and seemed to burst from her skin, leaving warm, tingly spots all over her body. She took a deep breath before she responded, smiling up at him, "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Carson, but it _does_ distract from the tasks at hand."

"It would never do to have you distracted, Mrs. Hughes," he looked like he was trying not to laugh. "How would anything be accomplished this evening?"

"Are you saying you couldn't manage without me, Mr. Carson?" What a heady feeling, flirting when the boundaries had shifted so much. She wasn't sure where her impertinence would take them anymore, because the topography of their relationship had changed so fundamentally not fifteen minutes ago. But right now she didn't particularly care. This free-fall feeling was terrifying, yes, but delightful, as well.

"I'd be completely lost without you, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, and she was walloped with the earnestness of it. He may have begun the sentence teasingly, but by the time he finished, his face was soft and open and there was nothing but truth in his countenance. And she realized how _relieved_ he was, that she had accepted him. As relieved as she had been to accept.

"Well then," she cleared her throat. "Once more into the fray, together, then Mr. Carson?" She placed her hand on top of his on the doorknob, and, once again, placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. This time, however, she lingered for a few seconds longer, breathing in the secret, spicy masculine smell of him, and vaguely hoping the third kiss would be _his_ to initiate. A…different…sort of kiss.

 _Enough of_ that, _now,_ she thought, smiling at him as he finally opened the door to the Christmas Eve celebrations still in full swing. _Back to work._

oooOOOooo

He wasn't sure where the evening went, or how he managed to do all that was required of him. He supposed it was a lucky thing he knew the ins and outs of Christmas Eve at Downton like the lines on the back of his hands, he was so thoroughly preoccupied by every thought of Elsie Hughes – her smiling up at him, accepting his proposal, her teasing on the stairs, her flushing fetchingly at his compliment, the warm, sustained feeling of her lips against his cheek…

 _Yes, well, best to carry on and think on that later,_ he shook his head, and turned to Mr. Molesley, who was approaching him, along with Andrew. The footmen were beginning to arrange the family's gifts under the tree, now that everyone had retired.

"Is it true, Mr. Carson, that Mr. Bates has returned?" Mr. Molesley asked as he directed them.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Molesley, in no small part due to your and Miss Baxter's diligence," he nodded at the man. He couldn't deny he enjoyed giving the footman a difficult time, on occasion, but he was feeling particularly generous tonight, and Elsie Hughes was right – what he and the lady's maid had done was kindness itself.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. For saying so," the man flushed, though Charles couldn't be sure if that was due to the large box in his arms, or the compliment his superior had paid him. "That means a lot, coming from a man such as yourself."

Charles nodded, gratified, and looked upwards at the family bedroom gallery. Once they realized John Bates had returned, he and Elsie Hughes had made the decision to send the couple on their way. It meant more work for Miss Baxter and the housekeeper, but it seemed like a small enough sacrifice to make for the valet to be reunited with his wife for the evening. Both of the Bates had been profuse in their appreciation and asserted they would return early tomorrow morning for the Christmas festivities.

He restlessly paced from the great hall to the dining room, where the table was being set for tomorrow Christmas breakfast. There was so much to do, and for once, his mind was on none of it. He simply wanted to find Elsie Hughes, and sit with her, quietly. Look at her, drink the sight of her in. His _fiance_ Perhaps, hold her hand. Or…

 _Enough dithering,_ he said to himself. _The quicker this work is done, the quicker you might…well, move on to something more satisfying._ He grinned to himself. It had taken only fifty or so years, but he'd found something – _someone_ – more satisfying than his role at Downton. Wonders never ceased – or Christmas miracles.

oooOOOooo

"It's quite lovely, isn't it?" Beryl Patmore lifted her face to sky, the darkest of blues, blanketed in thick shreds of snow clouds. Flakes danced and swirled around them, the cold, bright light of the winter moon peeking out now and then from behind the scrim of clouds. "I thought you were a bit mad, to come out to the yard at night, but it's a bit magical, Mrs. Hughes."

The cook grinned over at her, cheeks pink, and wrapped her coat more tightly around herself. Elsie smiled back. She wouldn't stay out here to long, but it was just so beautiful, so quiet, so _Christmassy_ , with the flakes swirling around their heads.

"It's a nice break from the madness inside, that's for certain, Mrs. Patmore," she sighed, rather liking the way the cold hit her ears and the tip of her nose.

"Though I suppose any of the younger folks hoping to sneak out here for a Christmas snog or two will be sorely disappointed to see the pair'a us," the cook began giggling, and Elsie gasped. Then started laughing along with her, her heart speeding up at the idea of a kiss in the falling snow. "Is this where you and Mr. Carson disappeared to, earlier, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Mrs. Patmore!"

"Oh, lordy, I was _teasing,_ Mrs. Hughes. But now you're making me wonder if I wasn't right," the cook put her hands in front of her mouth, turning red with embarrassment and mirth.

Elsie tried to gather herself; she knew the longer she was silent, the more likely the cook would come to her own conclusions – which were likely to be correct, in any case.

"Nothing like _that_ , Mrs. Patmore," she turned towards her friend, walking slightly close, lest they be overheard, though she knew practically speaking that was near impossible. "Mr. Carson…Mr. Carson wanted to… _advise_ …me that he'd bought the property we'd been looking at…in _both_ of our names." Her face felt as if it were being devoured by flames, but she was steadfast. Beryl had learned of Becky not long after Charles Carson had, because Elsie needed to share the weight of her sister with someone who cared, but wasn't… _invested._

Beryl Patmore's face got very serious, and she took a deep breath. "Did he now?" She turned towards Elsie, and smiled a little. "Mr. Carson the romantic. Who would have guessed it?"

"What's romantic about investing in property together?" Elsie _knew_ she opened the door on this particular conversation, but she wasn't quite sure how to navigate it. She felt a bit mad, really, right now. She couldn't help herself from mentioning his name any chance she got, but at the same time was unsure of what to share with her friend. _Not a green girl, but acting a bit like one, aren't you?_

"I suppose _anything_ could be romantic, if presented in the right way; however, the pair of you _didn't_ invest in a property together – never mind that wasn't ever the point – he bought the property. For the _both_ of you," she grinned triumphantly.

"I feel that I ought to be angry with you, Mrs. Patmore, for throwing my pauper's status in my face so blatantly," she replied, trying not to laugh. "But I somehow can't manage it."

"I expect _not_ , Mrs. Hughes," Beryl's eyes were twinkling, snow gathering on her dark coat. "Well, I am certainly glad of it, I'll say, for the both of you. It's about time," her face softened and she squeezed Elsie's arm. "I mean that, Mrs. Hughes, I do. And here, I played a little part in inspiring him."

"I believe you did, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie saw no point in denying anything. She didn't care to, in any case.

"I hope you understand that my teasing will have no end, at least for the next few weeks, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Mrs. Patmore, I would expect no less, true friend that you are," she replied and they both started giggling again.

"What, exactly, are the pair of you doing out here, exposed to the elements?" Charles Carson's voice made both women jump. He had expected to find a few housemaids out here sneaking cigarettes, or a pair of ill-advised young staff members caught in a lovers' embrace.

"Taking some air, is all, Mr. Carson, before retiring," Mrs. Patmore immediately responded. "I'll be off to bed, then, it's an early morning for the kitchen, Christmas is. Good night to you both, and Happy Christmas." She gave Elsie Hughes a long look, then disappeared inside.

He walked towards her, taking her in. Her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her ears bright pink from the cold. Snow gathering in her hair and on the shoulders of her coat. He recalled another Christmas Eve night, over thirty years ago, standing in this yard with her. The very first Christmas season that she was the housekeeper at Downton, right before their beloved mentor and friend, Sarah Davis, had retired. She had handled something unpleasant with a kitchen assistant rather well, he remembered…

"Did you bring biscuits, then?" She was grinning up at him. She remembered, too. All those years ago, standing in this quiet yard with him. She laughed delightedly when he pulled them from inside his livery.

"I helped myself to a few that Daisy had left out, Mrs. Hughes," he handed her one, which she bit into, relishing the gingery sweetness of it. "The wine has been decanted, but I'm afraid I left it in my study."

"Because you had to rush out here and tell off whomever was mucking about, Mr. Carson?" She had biscuit crumbs on her lips, which she licked away. She noticed him watching, looked down, excited and embarrassed and nervous all at once.

"I'm not sure you're capable of anything as untoward as 'mucking about', Mrs. Hughes," he raised an eyebrow at her. "Would you care for another biscuit?"

"I would, indeed, Mr. Carson, thank you," she took it from him, her fingers cold against his warm ones. She bit into it, wondering how she managed to push it down past her heart, which was pounding in her throat.

He gazed down at her, again thinking of that Christmas Eve, so long ago, when he'd only just begun to know her. Had he admired her, even back then? He's nearly certain he did; or deeply respected her, at the very least. But respect had so quickly turned to admiration and friendship and love and desire and then _something_ that was comprised of _all_ of those things, but really, _more_ than those separate parts.

"What is it, Mr. Carson?" She had lowered her hand, and the remaining biscuit fell from her hand, unnoticed. She was only aware of the look on his face, the closeness of his body.

"I am trying to it out, Mrs. Hughes, but I can't quite seem to find the answer," his heart was roaring in his ears, but she had said _yes, of course, I'll marry you_ , and she was smiling up at him, and it was Christmas Eve and the snow made everything seem fresh, and new, and _possible,_ so he placed his hand on her cold cheek.

She gasped a little, then leaned into the warmth of it, the _smell_ of him in it. "What's that, Mr. Carson?" They were as close together as they'd ever been, and for the first time, it wasn't out of necessity or comfort. It was because they _wanted_ to be there, because they _belonged_ there.

"Exactly when I began loving you, as I do now," he responded, and he felt everything in her soften, and he wrapped his free arm around her waist. She moved in towards him willingly, and he saw she was laughing a little, shaking her head.

"I don't ask that question, anymore, Mr. Carson. It's like trying to figure out why I breathe exactly the way I do, or why I like my tea strong, with milk. It just is part of me, loving you, I mean," she felt herself go cold, then warm, saying it out loud, finally.

He moved his finger across her cheek again, and she delighted in the sensation. Then he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers, and they _both_ delighted in the moment: the smell and taste of ginger biscuits, the cold pinpricks of the falling snow on her cheeks, the warmth that spread from his lips down towards his belly, the sound her hand made against the faintest stubble on his cheek. When their lips parted, he leaned back, his hand still on her face.

"Well, Mr. Carson," she smiled up at him. "I seemed to have misplaced the rest of my biscuit."

"I do believe I have a few more in my study, along with a lovely red from the south of France, if you care to join me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, I can't turn down one of Daisy's ginger biscuits," she laughed, her eyes twinkling.

"Certainly not, and why should you?" The turned to walk back inside together. He glanced over at her, smiling, his heart full.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."

"The happiest, Mrs. Hughes."


	12. A Wonderful Feeling

Stolen Kisses, Life on the Stage & Other Miracles

 **A/N: This is the end of this particular Chelsie tale, loves. I have MORE in store, I think, I hope, if the muse stays happy. The next ventures will be gifting fics: One a long time coming, a modern AU fic that will feature many more DA faves, though Chelsie will be central. It's for my hubby, after we both decided a fic entitled "Donk's Honky Tonk" would be basically one part hilarious and three parts great storytelling. Then, I am weaving two prompts from CSotA and CttN together to create a lovey, sweet, humorous, period married Chelsie ficlet.**

 **But first! Let's say farewell to the newly engaged pair as Christmas Eve becomes the day itself, 1924.**

 **Xoxo, CeeCee**

They walked in comfortable but charged silence back inside. He pulled the door to the yard firmly shut, made sure it was locked. Then turned towards her, his heart pounding, his head pleasantly light, and his mind oddly serene. Her cheeks were pink from the cold (and from their kiss? It was hard to say…), the snow melting quickly from the shoulders of her coat. She smiled at him, almost shyly, then her eyes flitted away.

The house was still around and above them, ticking and popping in that secret way buildings do, late at night, when no one's up to listen.

But _they two_ were still awake.

And _they two_ were once again standing together in the quiet hallway, as they had not so long ago.

But, ah, what a difference the turn of a few days, a week, or two, makes!

They were at the door of his study again, and this time, he simply pushed the door, which was slightly ajar, all the way open, grinned at her, and allowed her to pass him as she walked in. She began removing her coat, which he assisted with, relishing in all of the lingering touches and brushes and brief meetings of their bodies that entailed. He turned away from her reluctantly to hang it on his coat rack.

Her soft laughter startled him into turning around.

She was smiling at him, and blushing furiously. "Now, Mr. Carson, I do believe that's a bit more than 'a few biscuits', is it not?" She gestured to his desk, upon which, much to his surprise, was a beautifully set out platter laden down with not only ginger biscuits, but other Christmas confections, petit fours, cheese, fruit, and tiny, tree-shaped chocolates. The wine he'd decanted earlier sat at the ready beside it, two glasses at hand.

"As much as I would like to, Mrs. Hughes, I cannot take credit for such a lovely spread," he felt his face grow hot, wondering what, exactly, she was thinking. That he would entice her in here with an elaborate array of edibles and potables, so that…what, exactly? His mind flashed to the coolness of her cheek against his hand, the warmth of her lips against his own, in the yard, not fifteen minutes ago.

Now she was really laughing, and shook her head. "Mrs. Patmore, I believe, is to thank for this. Perhaps she didn't feel that a handful of stolen ginger biscuits was enough for Christmas Eve. Well, not for _this particular_ Christmas Eve." She sat in one of the two chairs he had pulled out, set close together. He poured the wine and handed her a glass.

He sat down next to her, gazed over at her. She was grinning at him over the rim of her wine glass. He was momentarily startled by her insinuation; that the cook knew, a little, maybe a lot, of what had transpired between he and the extraordinary woman whose knee was practically touching his at the moment. He couldn't decide whether he was irritated or exhilarated; if someone knew they were engaged, it made it seem _real_ , somehow. No – _official._ That was it.

"I don't understand friendship between women," he finally stated. It wasn't what he'd planned on saying, but there it was. "You all seem to _know_ things, somehow, Mrs. Hughes, without telling each other, precisely."

"Are you saying, then, Mr. Carson, that you trust I wasn't spilling all of our shared secrets to Mrs. Patmore, out there in the blowing snow?" She took a chocolate, bit into it.

"Well, I do know you to be the paragon of discretion, Mrs. Hughes, so I would hope not," he paused, deciding that he _could_ tease her, a little. "I certainly know the pair of you weren't out there passing around a flask or, heaven forfend, sharing a cigarette."

"I shan't attest to not ever sipping from a flask," her eyes were twinkling as he choked a little on his cookie at her retort. "But I can swear on my mother's grave I've never _touched_ a cigarette, let alone _smoked_ one."

He swallowed his cookie, sipped his wine. Thought of his aunt, her warmth, her daring, her brazenness. She somehow helped him get here, he felt. She and his mother, both.

"I did," he said, gazing at her. "Once."

"You never did!" She exclaimed. "In your wild youth, with other wild youths, Mr. Carson?" She grinned.

He shook his head. "It _was_ in my youth, Mrs. Hughes, but it wasn't with the lads, no. It was with my aunt."

He couldn't help but feel delighted at the naked shock on her face. She shook her head, and laughed a little. "Well, I suppose it's true, then, we never really do get the _full story_ , do we, Mr. Carson?"

"Rarely, Mrs. Hughes, rarely," he thought of that novel he'd given her all those years ago, when, he supposed, now that he looked back on it, he was already beginning to love her, just a little. He reached out and took her hand. She started a little, then smiled, and squeezed his in response.

"Your aunt, then?" It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Yes, my aunt. My Aunt Charlie, Charlotte she was, to most. She was an _actress,_ " he finished, as if that explained things. He suppose it did, in many ways.

"Aunt Charlie," she repeated, in a whisper, a smile touching her lips, then darting away, only to return a few moments later. "Aunt Charlie," she said again, and it sounded nearly like a benediction. "Was she the inspiration, then, for your brief foray into the theatre?"

"She was, indeed, Mrs. Hughes," he sighed, thinking of the odd, wonderful, terrible, magical, heartbreaking detour his life had taken in those hazy, awe-filled years he went from boy to man. Enticed into theater life, away from his promising job at Thrushcross Grange, by the gritty glamour that seemed to always surround the elder, feminine Charlie. Working backstage briefly, until, by dint of his height, handsome features, and blooming, booming baritone he'd been pulled onto the stage by Charlie Grigg.

He thought of those other Charlies, aunt and friend. He had started his time in the theater, with his aunt, yes, but she had spun off in one direction, he, another, following Charlie Grigg, but really, if he was honest with himself, following Alice, and the promise he saw in her eyes, in the curve of her mouth.

"Aunt Charlie was the reason I attempted a life on the stage, and it _was_ magical, in many ways…" He drifted off, and realized she was staring at him intently, her free hand unconsciously clutching the collar of her dress. He felt very…exposed…talking about the young man he'd been, and yet, felt the desire, not the _need,_ for her to understand what it was about that time that made him feel both nostalgic and ashamed.

"Earlier today, I overheard you say something to Daisy," he started, and he could see she was slightly puzzled by what seemed to be a change of subject. "You told her 'anything could happen for you, that's a wonderful feeling'."

"Aye, I _did_ say that to her, hard-working, bright lass that she is," she replied, and he realized there were tears shining in her eyes. She brushed them away, laughing a little, and he took the opportunity to capture her other hand in his.

"Hearing you say that, it's what…it's why I asked you, tonight, to marry me," he responded.

"So this was a spur of the moment decision, based on a few encouraging words to our assistant cook? Perhaps you should eavesdrop more often, Mr. Carson," her eyes were twinkling at him.

He resisted the urge to kiss her again, this time without warning. "There's no need for impertinence, Mrs. Hughes."

"There may be no _need_ for it, Mr. Carson, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its time and place," she retorted, and he couldn't stop himself. He leaned over and kissed her again, and she responded, squeezing his hands.

"See? Point proven." She nearly whispered when their lips parted.

"Now, might I finish my story? About my aunt?" He didn't lean back into his chair, but remained leaning forward, her dear face inches from his.

"Aye, I'm all ears, carry on," she answered, a bit breathless. She held his gaze, and her face softened into something less playful, more serious. "I would like to hear more of the man you were, Charles Carson, if I may."

"I shared a cigarette with my Aunt Charlie near the Opera Comique in London, in the winter of 1879. I was twenty-two years old, and I had been working in this very house for about two years, give or take. I remember it well, because she had written to me about the role she was understudying, and because, despite everything – Charlie Grigg, Alice – a secret part of me _longed_ for the stage again, for that sense of possibility, that anything could happen," he paused, grinned at her. She smiled in response, nodded encouragingly.

"She wrote to say that she would be taking over a featured role, briefly, and hoped I would come to see her. And I did, and she was…breathtaking. I sat there, gawky lad I was, and just _stared_ at her, marveling that I was related to this…this…vision…on the stage. I hardly knew what to do with myself, Mrs. Hughes; I was delighted and regretful and joyful, all at once," he was startled to realize tears were biting at the back of his eyes, warm pinpricks of wetness.

"And then, I waited for her, in the cold, on the street, and she came out after the performance, same old Aunt Charlie, half of the greasepaint still on her face, her hair piled on her head, and she pulled me into this hug, this way she had of _engulfing_ me, and ruffled my hair like I was a boy in short pants, then the next moment, handed me a cigarette. I smoked it mostly because I was afraid _not_ to, Mrs. Hughes," he laughed a little. "She was magical, and she was also a bit rough, and she was wise, and she was my aunt, and I loved her."

He didn't realize the tears had spilled over, until her hand reached out, brushed them away. It was one of the best feelings he could remember in a very long time.

"Aye, that's being human, I think, Mr. Carson. We've all got magical bits, and rough bits. When we love someone, we get to see more of those rough bits, I think. And maybe, we love them all the more, for it," she smiled at him and his heart swelled. Then she asked,

"What role? What part was she playing?"

"Miss Cripps in Gilbert & Sullivan's _H.M.S. Pinafore_ ," he answered, with a wry grin.

"Little Buttercup!" She replied delighted, "No wonder you were enthralled, Mr. Carson."

She stood, releasing his hands gently, and poured them each another glass of wine. He realized she was humming, and he stood as well. They nearly started singing at the same time:

"I've treacle and toffee, I've tea and I've coffee,  
Soft tommy and succulent chops;  
I've chickens and conies, and pretty polonies,  
And excellent peppermint drops!"

They toasted each other, and she began giggling.

"What is it, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Well…Gilbert and Sullivan, Mr. Carson. Not the most, shall we say, _conservative_ pair of artists."

"And yet, I stand before you, knowing every untoward lyric," and he placed his free hand around her waist, and it fit there, as if it were always meant to rest in just that spot. "It's Christmas, Mrs. Hughes, and miracles _do_ sometimes happen."

"Christmas…when _anything_ can happen. Even proposals, gifted houses," she grinned up at him.

"Isn't _that_ a wonderful feeling?"

"Aye, 'tis, Mr. Carson. 'Tis."


	13. Heartstrings

She finished securing her hair, placing the final pin in at the nape of her neck. She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she had spent a few extra minutes on it this morning, adding a few flourishes she usually wouldn't even consider.

 _You ninny, it's clearer than ever that he likes the look of you, and more, just as you are. What's the fuss about?_ She smiled at her reflection, mildly startled, as she was on occasion these days, it didn't _quite_ match her own mental picture of herself. Most days, she didn't feel much different now than she did twenty years ago.

But that wasn't exactly true, was it? Surely, her body felt as strong and capable and energetic as it always had, but she thought of all of the heavy things, the secrets and half-truths, she had carried around with her, for decades, or years: Becky, of course; the existence of babies that shouldn't be, according to society's standards, and the terrifying truth of what had happened to Anna, what the odious Mr. Green had done to her.

On this Christmas morning, however, there was something wonderfully, deliciously different:

She had a _happy_ secret.

She was _engaged._

To _Charles Carson._

It was enough to take the breath out of her every time her mind or heart landed on it, which was every few minutes or so. She'd slept very little last night, but really, it was a wonder she'd slept at all. And had she? Actually slept? It was hard to say really. She had passed the hours between when she'd crept upstairs to her room - after that soft, magical time they'd shared in his study - and dawn in a befuddled, dreamy, happy trance that wasn't quite sleep, really. The entirety of who she was being tugged, sometimes gently, sometimes otherwise, in the direction of Downton's butler. In those hazy pre-dawn hours, her mind roamed, wondering if he, too, was having difficulty sleeping.

No matter what she had thought, what she had _hoped_ , was happening between she and Charles Carson, over the past few years and months, especially, there was no way to know how it would feel on _this_ side of his proposal. Everything inside of her, everything that she was made of, was shifting, sliding, resettling, tugging, pulling towards another person.

She _belonged_ to someone.

He belonged to _her_.

She was overflowing with the largess of what she possessed: Charles Carson's heart, always.

How she would manage to behave normally today was a bit beyond her, but she'd certainly try. And her hair would look _exceptionally_ tidy, in any case. She smiled at her reflection again, laughed a little breathlessly, and headed downstairs, to start this particularly Happy Christmas.

oooOOOooo

 _This might prove difficult_ , he thought, as he realized, for the fourth or fifth time, he was singing to himself. And it was only just past seven in the morning. He just felt so relieved, so glad, so joyous – yes, that was the word,joyous– it was burbling and bursting out of him in scraps of song. And, on top of last night's wondrous events, he was tickled by the existence of his secret, of the fact that Elsie Hughes would _soon marry him_ , but if he didn't get himself settled, it wouldn't be a hidden state of affairs for very long.

He made his way downstairs, past the servants' hall, and noticed Elsie Hughes' door was open, the office beyond it empty. He resisted the ridiculous urge to dash around, up and downstairs, opening doors, until he found her, and made his way to the kitchen, still humming.

Beryl Patmore was there, intently preparing a beautiful tower of fruit and pastries, while Daisy whisked a bowl of batter beside her, making it fluffy and light. A few junior kitchen girls were stirring steaming pots and pans on the stove behind them.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson!" Daisy called cheerily to him, smiling over at him.

"Very good, Daisy, Happy Christmas to all of you, as well," he responded, something tugging in his chest, soaring. It felt almost as if that part of him was trying, physically, to locate his new fiancé. As if it wouldn't be contained, regardless of propriety. Speaking of…

"Yes, a _very_ Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson, I'm sure you'll agree?" Mrs. Patmore glanced up from her handiwork, grinning slyly at him.

He paused only for a moment, his sense of what was _appropriate_ battling with this mad happiness that seemed to have entirely infected him, and he was helpless to control it. "Indeed, Mrs. Patmore, I would say this Christmas is an exceptionally merry one, now that you mention it." The cook looked startled, then pleased, then refocused her gaze on her work, hiding her laughter from the rest of her staff. He continued,

"You've not seen Mrs. Hughes yet this morning, have you?"

The cook's grin widened, and she glanced over at him again. "She'll be down soon, I expect, Mr. Carson; she went upstairs to help some of the maids arrange the Christmas flowers and greenery in the drawing room and great hall. They seemed at sixes and sevens without her, as many of us are." He was pretty sure she winked at him. Almost certain.

"Look who I found!" He was distracted by a happy exclamation behind him. Mr. Molesley appeared in the doorway with Andrew, followed by both Bateses, brushing a dusting of snow off of their coats. Mr. Bates was greeted with surprise cheers and hellos, and then suddenly, the whole kitchen was singing, one carol after the other, and he joined in, trying to control his enthusiasm for appearance's sake.

Various members of the staff darted to and fro, and he kept things in motion and running smoothly, as was his duty. But he was also aware of that tugging, searching feeling in the center of his chest which had but one destination in mind.

He went upstairs, ostensibly to ensure that everything was impeccably set for Christmas breakfast, but stopping in drawing room, which was certainly not on his way, to see if he could spot a certain housekeeper rearranging flowers. His detour ended in disappointment, however, as that particular room was empty (though, he noted, the flowers _did_ look expertly styled).

He made his way through the great hall, all but ignoring the magnificent Christmas tree with its pile of gifts, passing several staff members, but not **the** staff member in question; the dining room looked as elegant and celebratory as he expected, the gorgeously set table and sideboard a delicate riot of greens, reds and golds.

But no Elsie Hughes.

He headed back downstairs, passing Andy, who was carefully balancing the beautiful confections tower Mrs. Patmore had been building earlier. He could hear the staff still singing in fits and bursts, the familiar tune of "Joy to the World filling the hall and kitchen. He stood in the kitchen doorway, observing the happy industry therein, his hands clasped behind his back. He added his voice to the fray,

"…while fields and floods,

Rocks, hills and plains,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy!"

And then, at last, another Christmas wonder: a quick, warm squeeze of his hand, the waft of lavender and vanilla, the familiar contralto voice joined his, and the others', and he gazed down at Elsie Hughes, standing close enough for their sides to brush against each other.

She smiled up at him and suddenly everything in him relaxed, settled. His heartstrings weren't tugging anymore. His heart was beside him, and he meant to keep her there, always.


End file.
